


The Rebel and the Royal

by GalaxyMuse



Series: Gold Saints Anthology [5]
Category: Saint Seiya
Genre: A chatty analysis of the ridiculousness of this show, Alright nobody is going to actually hook up, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, But i figured nobody would care if it wasn't in the tag, Gen, Hyoga and Isaak are here for like 5 seconds so that's cool, Inappropriate Humor, Milo's got a mouth, Original Character(s), So here we are, THEY ARE FRIENDS IN THIS FIC, and Camus is just...Camus, two assholes with a lot to say
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 15:20:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8995522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalaxyMuse/pseuds/GalaxyMuse
Summary: Twelve men donning golden armor guard the Sanctuary of Athena in Greece, the Goddess of Wisdom and War. The strongest of all her soldiers, these golden saints guard each house of the Zodiac. While they all serve the efforts of good, the paths that led them to Greece are as diverse as the corners of the Earth they were from. Some earned their cloths with joy, others in the wake of sadness, while others yet through ambition. How they became the saints they were was once shrouded in mystery until now.These are the stories of how the twelve gold saints of the Sanctuary Arc earned their cloths.(Sanctuary arc of Anime/Manga)A VERY special thanks to my friends at Overactive Imagination who helped me edit/bounce ideas around for this anthology!------------------------------------------------------------------------------------It had been years since two acquaintances, Camus and Milo, had seen each other in the Sanctuary. Finally  meeting in Siberia, the two butt heads on everything- from their lexicon to the value of life, it would seem they have little common ground. Yet, they need each other more than they're willing to admit.TRIGGER WARNINGS: Graphic Depictions of Death, Crude Humor.





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> FAIR WARNING: THIS IS NOT A SLASH FIC- MILO AND CAMUS ARE FRIENDS IN THIS FIC
> 
> I just figured nobody would find this unless I put it in the ship tag X,D. But now that you're here, I hope you still consider the fic and give me your feedback! Thank you for stopping by!
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: Graphic Depictions of Death, Crude Humor.

**FINAL WARNING: THIS IS NOT A SLASH FIC- MILO AND CAMUS ARE FRIENDS IN THIS FIC** ...but I still hope you enjoy!

 

­Edgar knew he'd arrive at 8. Or maybe it was 9. He wasn't sure which. The only thing he knew was that his oldest (if not paradoxically steadfast) friend complained over the phone that he might be half asleep when he arrived. Such a complaint left the actual time a mystery, so he figured the sooner he could arrive to meet him, the better.

 

The sun had begun to rise as he arrived at the train station. Finding a place to sit on a metal bench by the ticket booth, he looked towards the distance at the tracks. Awaiting any sign of an arriving train, he absentmindedly checked his watch and wondered if his students were awake minding their responsibilities.

 

The thoughts were abruptly stopped by a burst of wind. Edgar tugged at the collar of his trenchcoat, bringing it closer to his cheeks. It wasn't so much the dying puffs of bitter cold that bothered the Aquarius Saint, as much as the inevitable rouge it brought to his pale face. Such a rose hue felt garish to him, despite having been told the contrary for many years.

 

Checking the time on the station clock with its dim glow and rusted hands, Edgar once again began to mull over seeing his old friend. Three years ago, he left the sweltering heat of Athens to train new Saints in Siberia, and the two hadn't been face-to-face in that time.

 

The two had kept in touch, certainly, but postcards and the occasional phone call could only do so much. They had agreed to meet again at some point, but Edgar knew distance was a detrimental factor for these kinds of things. Now that it was finally happening, the Aquarius Saint began to wonder how the reunion would go. Had his friend changed? Was Edgar expected to to have changed as well? Perhaps most importantly, would Milo remember to bring everything he said he would?

 

He rose and strode over to the schedule. The next train would arrive in about 20 minutes. Through the dim reflection of the glass, Edgar checked to ensure his own sleepiness was absent from his eyes. The steely blue eyes stared back, as did his slender, sloped nose, thin lips and high cheekbones for an expression that was stern at its most neutral.

 

Tugging at the worn fiddler's cap on his head, he sat back down once more, crossing his legs as he pulled out a worn paperback to pass the time. He certainly hoped he hadn't missed the train, though if he did he was sure he'd have heard the denizens of the small village trying to help a very confused foreigner get to his destination. He opted to settle into the book over fretting. Picking up where he left off the previous night, he lost himself to the story as time passed.

 

Soon enough, a distant rhythmic chugging began to creep into his ear. Looking up from his book, he saw the white puffs of steam billow into the clouds. Once more he rose, waiting for the train to roll in. More steam burst from the wheels with a hiss once it halted. As the warm clouds slowly faded away, the passengers began to disembark. Edgar eyed them quickly, realizing his friend would probably be hard to miss. Feeling his search was in vain as the train rolled away, he felt a hearty pat on his shoulder.

 

“Hey!” a voice behind him mocked, “Are papers still a nickel? Can't believe you can still pick up one by hand out here.”

 

Edgar turned around and rolled his eyes. Picking up the hand on his shoulder as if it were diseased, he dropped it at Milo's side. “Well, the literate would know,” he replied, crossing his arms. “Interesting choice in kerchief, ” he added, nodding his head towards the equally stretched out bandanna on Milo's head.

 

Milo gave a smirk in response. “Oh, you like it? Thanks!” He looked to the sky thoughtfully. “Well, we finally did it,” he casually announced, picking up the suitcases beside him. “You look like crap by the way,” he added jovially, “You getting enough food out here? I know you like the snow, but I don't think you can live off the stuff.”

 

Edgar sighed. “I'm eating enough. I just know when to control myself at the dinner table.”

 

The Scorpio Saint huffed, “Oh come on, we're still on that? I was really hungry that night, alright?”

 

“Then I can only imagine how much you can eat when you have a normal appetite.”

 

Milo shook his head. “Let's just drop it and get the hell out of here. My ass is killing me from all that sitting.”

 

Still vulgar, too. Edgar figured that wasn't going to change from spending time in the Sanctuary. As the Scorpio Saint, he supposed that Milo might even be influencing younger trainees to pick up his... habits. _The horror._

 

At least he was getting enough sun, given the bronze of his skin. Milo's eyes were a close match to the vivid seas of Greece. He carried a slightly squarer jaw than Edgar, and had a sloped nose with the slightest crook on the bridge. A sly, if not subtly mischievous look was always twinkling just behind his eyes, his lips resting on a smirk always at the ready with a quip.

 

Heading out of the station and going towards the pickup truck, Milo took in the scenery around them. “I see it's as exciting here as it is back in the Sanctuary,” he commented, and of course by that he meant hardly.

 

“Were you expecting otherwise?” Edgar asked as he opened the doors to let them in.

 

“Just wanted to make sure I wasn't missing out on any fun,” Milo replied as he put his luggage in the bed. “Of course, knowing you,” he continued as he got into the passenger side, “you'd obviously pick one of the most un-fun places on the Earth as your training ground.”

 

“Well excuse me for not considering entertainment venues in my choice of locale,” Edgar retorted, rolling his eyes as he started the ignition.

 

Driving down the long road towards the cabin, the two were initially quiet. Edgar was focused on the road and not slipping on the ice, while Milo leaned his elbow on the window's edge and looked outside. An endless stretch of white snow raced by, the occasional cluster of snow-covered trees swaying in the wind as they passed.

 

“Do you miss it? Athens, I mean,” Milo asked regarding the Sanctuary as they passed the occasional wooden cabin. High above Athens in the mountains, the headquarters of the Saints of Athena were known to few and accessible only to the powerful soldiers.

 

Edgar shook his head. “Not really. It gets too hot for my taste.”

 

Milo shrugged. “Guess if you're not used to it, that'll happen. It doesn't get that hot in France?”

 

“Not normally where I'm from,” Edgar replied. “Although, high up from my assigned temple it did feel a little cooler.”

 

“Yeah, Shura keeps bragging about how his temple is the _mejor 1-_whatever the fuck that means _-_ one to stay in during the summer because it gets the best breeze.” Milo commented on their colleague, the Capricorn Saint. Adding out of the corner of this mouth, “If you can believe it, that guy's ego has gotten worse.”

 

Edgar nodded solemnly, knowing full well about the fellow Gold Saint's pride as his former next-door neighbor. “All the more reason I'm glad I left.”

 

“Looks pretty lonely out here, though.” Milo observed, craning his neck to see the next cabin far up the road.

 

“There's not much between the station and the village where I'm staying,” Edgar explained, “but there's more people there. The villagers are rather pleasant.”

 

“Gotcha. Do they know what you're up to there?”

 

“Yup.”

 

“Wow, and they don't mind?”

 

“We do our training further out in the tundra, away from causing harm to anyone. They're fine with it.”

 

“I guess that's helpful,” Milo responded, letting out a long sigh. “I'm still happier you took the assignment.2”

 

“Well, goodness knows if it was you training them out here, all they would learn is how to endure your whining.”

 

Milo shrugged off his host's comment, not denying its accuracy.

 

As they drove closer to the village, Edgar's visitor did note more clusters of cabins, and even a bar and convenience store. People dressed in thick coats waved to each other as they padded through the slowly melting spring snow. It may have been dull, but at least the place seemed friendly. He could say the same for his fellow Gold Saint at the wheel, but at this point he was more of a comfortable acquaintance than a confidante.

 

Much to Milo's relief, the truck at long last pulled up to a small wooden cabin at the edge of the village. Stepping out of the truck and heading inside, they found the living room empty. Looking around, the guest was surprised to find that despite Edgar's seemingly refined taste, the cabin's decor was minimal. The wooden cabin was furnished with just what was needed to get by: a sofa, television, two armchairs, and a coffee table.

 

“Boys? Are you here?” Edgar called out while Milo put his bags down. He noticed two doors that were closed slowly opening.

 

A young man emerged from each room, cautiously walking into the living room to greet their master. Within a matter of seconds it was painfully clear that the youths were stuck in the mire of their teenage years. Their gangly limbs still couldn't decide where to place all of the muscles they had acquired from their three years of training.

 

One of the teens, sporting spiked green hair and darker green eyes, stood upright first and saluted Edgar. “Master Camus, did you call us?” he said with the sternness of a soldier. His fellow trainee, a blond with longer, shaggier hair and blue eyes, also stood at attention, albeit with not as formal a stance.

 

Edgar acknowledged them with a nod. “Yes I did, Isaak. Have you two completed your morning tasks?” His voice was as stern as his face, looking to his pupils as a commander does his squadron.

 

“Yes, sir,” the blond now spoke, his voice more subdued than this training partner. “Once we were done we came back here like you asked.”

 

“Good. Have you two had breakfast?” The teacher asked next, the tone in his voice softening.

 

“Yes, sir,” Isaak spoke again, “And Hyoga cleaned the dishes.”

 

“Excellent. Boys, this is Milo the Gold Saint of Scorpio. He'll be staying with us for the next few days, so I expect you two to treat him with the respect he has earned.”

 

Hyoga and Isaak saluted the visitor by placing a fist over their hearts. Milo did all he could to hold back a chuckle. They were definitely under his friend's tutelage, arguably for too long.

 

Edgar side-eyed his guest before continuing. “There is something Milo and I must discuss in private, so consider this a rest day. I expect you both back by dusk. Understood?”

 

“Yes, sir.” the two boys said in unison.

 

“Very good. Off you go, and behave yourselves this time. I don't want to hear from the neighbors that you trapped the mailman and his truck in ice again.”

 

The trainees looked to each other nervously and nodded, slipping past the two Gold Saints quietly before making their way out the door. Once they had left, Milo finally let loose the laugh he had been holding in.

 

“Didn't realize you were that uptight,” he noted as he removed his coat. “Is here alright?” he asked Edgar, holding it over the couch.

 

The Aquarius Saint shook his head. “I couldn't possibly expect you to understand the importance of raising young men to exercise discipline and respect. The coat rack is behind you, and you'll have to sleep on the couch. Hope you don't mind.”

 

“Nah, works for me.” Once he hung up his and Edgar's coats, Milo began to unpack his suitcase. “Do they at least know your name? They live with you, you might as well tell them that. Hell, I've known you this long and you haven't even told me.”

 

Edgar shrugged. “What's it matter if I give you my first name or my last? A name is a name. By this point anyway, everyone in Greece refers to me as 'Aquarius Camus'. That might as well be it.”

 

“Aquarius? Sounds very you,” Milo teased as he unpacked his suitcase. Laying out a few shirts and pants, he then pulled out a few plastic containers and a box of rubber gloves. “So then, where are we doing this?”

 

“Did you-”

 

“ _Yes,_ I remembered your color.” Milo was expecting the question, given that despite how calm Camus was, there were a few things he was neurotic about.

 

“Good. We'll be using the bathroom. If you don't have a spare shirt, I'll lend you one.”

 

Milo held up a worn white t-shirt, covered in purple streaks. “You realize I've done this before, _with you,_ right?”

 

Edgar went into his room as Milo spoke, returning with his own worn gray shirt stained with blue. “Yes, I know. Excuse me for trying to be a good host.” Pulling the brim of his cap, he removed it from his head. Blazing red hair was let loose from a hair tie, and flowed onto his shoulders and back. The tips were a faded jade, the remnants of the last time he dyed it. “I'll get the mixing cups.”

 

“No need. I brought those, too.” Milo said as he let out his own blond hair from under his bandanna, his own tips a dusty rose. Though not as long as his friend's, it too fell on his shoulders. Thicker and more unkempt, he scratched his mane as he looked through his plastic containers. “Just need some newspapers to spread out.”

 

“Alright, I'll get those from the kitchen. See you in the restroom.”

-

 

 

Milo had already begun laying out small brushes and cups when Edgar arrived. Dragging two dining room chairs to the doorway, he sat while Milo busily worked at laying out a number of hair clips.

 

“These are yours,” he said to the Aquarius Saint, giving him a new pack of clips, “didn't know how many you kept here. Figured it couldn't hurt to bring a few more.”

 

Edgar took it and began to section off his hair with the clips. “Thank you,” he said, opening it and placing a few on his wrists. “Where is the bleach?”

 

Milo waved a small box in front of him, and handed him one of the plastic cups he brought along. Edgar took the box and some other bottles he retrieved from his room, while Milo set aside a large bottle of conditioner for later and handed Edgar one of two plastic seat covers.

 

“I see you still use the same ones,” Edgar observed, noting the blue and purple streaks on the plastic.

 

Milo raised a brow. “Do they go bad after a while or something? Besides, it's not like the dried parts are going to stain the temples-and quite frankly that's all I care about.”

 

Edgar conceded with a nod. Figuring that was as good a spot to pick up a conversation as ever, he began to section off his hair with the clips and asked, “So how are things in the Sanctuary?”

 

Milo shrugged. “Same as always. Boring. Not much to do except the occasional mission Arles will send us out on.”

 

“Such as?”

 

“Such as what?”

 

“You know,” Edgar sighed, “for being such a chatterbox at times, you can be rather oblivious when someone's trying to carry on a conversation with you. What missions have you been on?”

 

Milo scoffed. “Well smartass, since you're _itching_ to know apparently, the other day we were sent to Australia.”

 

“What for?”

 

“You know how it is with the 'Great Pope' - a Saint so much as says his fly's down and he goes berserk. Got a bug up his ass like you wouldn't believe these days, too.”

 

“You have such a way with words,” Edgar said sarcastically, “but what do you mean?”

 

Milo rolled his eyes at his friend's remark and continued. “Now all us Golds have to make a round of the Sanctuary every day and report any suspicious activity. Which of course there never is, because he's got everyone scared shitless. Want me to get the petroleum jelly? I don't see it out yet,” he asked, seeing that Edgar was done sectioning his hair in the front.

 

Checking all of the kit pieces that were out, the Saint realized that Milo was right.“Seems I forgot it.” He shrugged his shoulders, his arms already raised to pick up a section in the back. “I'll get it, it's no problem. Just do me a favor,” he requested as he rose from his chair, “and get the hand mirror under the sink cabinet.”

 

While Edgar went to his room to grab the missing item, Milo did as he was told and searched through the organized cabinet for the mirror. He kept speaking as he went, raising his voice so it could be heard. “That's about it, really. Same damn sun all day, same food, same duties. I'm going crazy, it's so dull,” he complained. Eventually finding a rectangular hand mirror, he pulled it out. “Is it this black one?” he asked.

 

“Do you see any other mirrors in there?”

 

Milo scanned the cabinet once more, hoping he'd be gone by the time Edgar could notice the disheveled contents thanks to his searching. Something like that could be easily pinned on the kids anyway. “Nope, just this one.”

 

“Then you just answered your own question,” Edgar stated, returning with a small white container.

 

Milo gave him a sneer as he closed the cabinet door. “You know, you certainly have a talent for making someone feel like a jerk.”

 

Sitting back down and continuing to section his hair, Edgar responded. “You brought that on yourself. If anything, I'd say it's a talent all your own.” The nonchalance in his voice made Milo all the more irritated and annoyed at what he was going to say next.

 

“As much as I can't believe I'm going to admit it, I had hoped something interesting might be happening on your end.”

 

The fact that he was looking to _Camus_ for entertainment was awkwardly ironic. All the eloquently blunt redhead ever liked to discuss was “the arts.” Paintings, theater, classical music, all the things that bored Milo to tears. He usually just tuned out whatever Edgar was discussing on those subjects, or replied with nods and generic questions. Quite frankly, it was a miracle to him that they ever engaged in conversation at all. Then again, it beat waiting for his dye to set alone.

 

“Will wonders never cease?” Edgar asked once again with sarcasm. “Don't worry, I won't tell. I know you have your reputation to keep, whatever strange fixation you have on it.” Now done sectioning his hair into four parts, he put a dab of jelly on his fingers. Taking the mirror in the clean hand, he applied the jelly to his hairline.

 

“You better not. By the way, that reminds me. I have something for you. Wait here,” he told Camus, walking around the chair and over to his luggage. He returned with a small piece of paper in his hands, passing it to his friend. “On the way back, we passed by Sydney.”

 

Edgar placed the mirror down and took the gift, discovering it was a postcard. A large structure with numerous tapering white points as a roof was pictured on one side.

 

“I know that's your thing, so I figured you might like it,” Milo said as he went back to his seat. Even if listening to Camus ramble on about it was comparative to watching paint dry, he wasn't opposed to a nice gesture towards him.

 

“It did take quite some time to build that opera house you know, and it's still fairly new. At least, as far as these things are concerned.” Edgar noted, handing it back. “I'm surprised you considered getting me anything at all. If you don't mind, place it on that shelf above the fireplace. I'll find a place for it later.”

 

“'Thank you' works too, you know.” Milo commented with a dry laugh, doing as he was asked.

 

“I think stating I'm going to find a place for it is the same thing, isn't it?” he asked as he finished applying the jelly. “I was trying not to make you uncomfortable by being discreet with my pleasure. You should learn subtlety.”

 

“Says the redhead dyeing his hair blue,” Milo quipped. “So, how's life out here in the middle of nowhere?”

 

Edgar had to think on the question for a moment, now preparing the bleach powder in one of the mixing cups. He poured the contents of the bottles from his room in the cup along with the powder, mixing it with the end of one of the brushes. “I can't say much that you might find entertaining, but I'm enjoying myself. Speaking of opera, Swan Lake was on the other day. It's not opera, but it's-”

 

“A ballet, right?” Milo felt like he could punch himself for realizing such a useless fact slipped through the cracks. He didn't mean to contribute to the asinine conversation, and braced for yet more useless trivia.

 

“Yes. A Russian one. So I suggested the boys sit and watch it. It's their culture, after all, their history. They should know about it.”

 

“I'm not sure if I should be impressed that you got two teens to sit down and watch a ballet, or worried about how you made them do it.”

 

Edgar threw a glare at his dyeing partner. “I didn't _force_ them to watch it if that's what you're implying. Believe it or not, they willingly saw it.”

 

“Gotta be something in the water here,” Milo mumbled.

 

“I heard that,” Edgar snapped, “I've raised them to be respectable young men who don't go running around swearing all day and have an active interest in something other than themselves.”

 

Milo raised his hands in false surrender. “It's the only explanation I can think of, I'm just saying. Anyway, did they like it?”

 

“They did, Hyoga especially.” A small smile tugged at the corners of Edgar's lips as he recalled the memory.

 

“That the blond one?”

 

“Yes. He's half-Japanese which explains the odd name. His mother was from Omsk, or so he tells me. Anyway, he's begun integrating some movements into his attacks. He'll wave one arm, and then another, and then pose on one foot. It's rather a sight to see,” he chuckled, trying his best to imitate it in his chair.

 

“Sounds like your kind of fighter then, am I right?” Milo asked, finding such motions ridiculous not only for combat, but overall intimidation.

 

Edgar lowered his head, looking quickly out the window from the bathroom to ensure his trainees were nowhere in sight. “Between you and me,” he said in a low voice, “I find it to be a little silly. But, if it helps him channel his cosmo, who am I to argue against it?”

 

Milo couldn't help but snicker at his friend's teasing of his trainees, but eventually nodded in agreement. “God knows we've seen weirder, right?”

 

Edgar raised his brows in acknowledgment as he put on a pair of the rubber gloves.

 

“How old are they?” Milo asked as he finished sectioning off the hair, “Fourteen?”

 

“They just turned fifteen a while ago. Their birthdays are just a few weeks apart too” Edgar picked the mirror back up and passed it to Milo to hold. He ensured his brush was well-covered in product and began to coat the front of his hair with it.

 

“Fifteen, huh? Man, now I feel old. I think it was around that time I started doing my hair,” Milo recounted.

 

“Me too, I believe.” Moving from root to tip, Edgar moved the brush along his bangs. “Have you tried any other colors?”

 

“Nope, always done purple. You?”

 

“Same. I've never been interested in any color aside from blue.”

 

“Huh.” Milo nodded his head as he listened, surprised to see that in a strange way they did have some things in common. “Well, you know why I always pick purple, so I'm not set on changing any time soon.”

 

Edgar paused and tilted his torso to look questioningly past the mirror at Milo. “I do?”

 

Milo looked both confused and insulted. “My gang, remember?” He asked a bit hotly.

 

“You were in a gang?” Edgar was rather baffled, feeling he would recall if someone he had spent a decent enough time with was once in a gang.

 

“How have I never told you about that?!” Now the Scorpio Saint was shocked at his own lack of exposition.

 

Edgar shrugged and kept applying bleach. “Maybe you did. I might have tuned you out.”

 

Guess there was more than one thing they had in common, Milo thought. “Hm, I guess I can tell you again if you're willing to pay attention this time.”

 

“My apologies for disregarding something so important to you. I will listen this time,” Edgar said in a softer tone, embarrassed that he had actively ignored such an important aspect of his friend's life.

 

Milo waved it off. “Nah, nobody really asks me about it anyway. They don't really care much, I guess. Anyway, I'll start at the top,” he said, clearing his throat as he prepared for his story. “About thirty some-odd years ago-”

 

“Is it really necessary to start from when you were born?” Edgar asked, now working on the longer sections in the front.

 

“I'd say the day I was born is an important place to start, wouldn't you? There wouldn't even be a story without me, so we might as well start there. So, here was my mom, heaving and huffing as she was trying to pop me out-”

 

“Would you mind sparing me the graphic description of your birth?”

 

“ _Point is_ ,” the Scorpio Saint said pointedly, tired of the interruptions, “I was born, and my mom asks my dad what to call me. I was the second kid, you see, so he was already used to this whole process. He was waiting till the last minute to figure out a name for me, and was expecting me to be another girl. When I wasn't one, he panicked and scrambled for another name. He was eating an apple3 at the time, so he opted for that.”

 

“Your name is literally apple in Greek?”

 

Milo laughed, trying his best to keep his arm still. “Pretty funny on its own, but my mom nearly killed him when he tried it the next time around with my little sister. He was gunning for a boy again, but when she wasn't, he looked down to his meal and shouted 'Call her Souvlaki4!'”

 

“Somehow that impulsiveness of your father's explains a lot about you,” Edgar noted.

 

Milo gave out a frustrated grunt, his eyebrows furrowing in irritation. “Are you going to listen to my story or critique it?”

 

“Go on, go on,” he sighed, going back to bleaching.

 

“Anyway, it was me, my mom, my dad, and my two sisters. We lived along the coast for a while. You know those pictures of all those white houses with the blue roofs?”

 

“Yes,” Edgar responded, always finding such pictures of the coast of Greece quaint.

 

“Yeah, our place looked nothing like that.”

 

“Then why bring it up at all?!” Edgar's idyllic picture of Milo's home by the sea was instantly shattered.

 

Milo grinned from ear to ear. “To see the look of disappointment on your face.”

 

Edgar scrunched his face in irritation, seeing as his friend succeeded. “Just keep going. What was it actually like then?”

 

Milo pulled his lips to the side. “Kind of a shithole to be honest, it had a leaky roof all the time. Part of the reason was that my mom was the only one that worked. She was a teacher, and a damn good one too. Eventually, she got a job at another town more inland, so off we went.”

 

“Do you remember that town?”

 

“Oh sure. Technically, we moved to a different section of the same area. Sisters and I were born around Thessaloniki, see, and her job was more inland in Neapoli-Sykies. It's all part of the same region, though5.”

 

“I see. They have a similar setup in France, too.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“Yes, there are several regions, that all have their own departments, then those break down into cities6.”

 

“Alright, interesting,” Milo nodded, shifting back to his tale. “So, around the time we moved, I started to develop a certain, er, trait.” His voice seemed to stifle for a moment before he continued, sliding his eyes over to meet Camus's. “I'm sure I don't have to explain any further than that.”

 

Indeed, he didn't. The first things that stuck out to Edgar the day they met were Milo's index fingernails. Both of them were a deep scarlet color, and slightly sharpened at a point. They were a stark contrast to the other normal, filed down fingernails. After an explanation he found that no, Milo didn't have a strange preference in manicures.

 

“I'm sure your parents had no clue what to do about your Scarlet Needles,” Edgar said.

 

Milo chuckled and shook his head, a strange nostalgia glowing on his face from recounting the more innocent times. “It took a good half an hour to explain to my mom that no, I didn't raid her nail polish. She was getting ready to storm out the door and buy me some to use, so I wouldn't take from her stash!” His laughter tapered off, still grinning from the memory. “It had just woken up though. I couldn't do anything with it yet.”

 

“How old were you?”

 

“Hm, must have been about twelve I think.”

 

“I see. So your nails were just inexplicably red and sharpened?”

 

“Yeah, it drove the doctors crazy. Nobody knew why the hell I had it. But it wasn't hurting me, so my mother was fine with it as long as I didn't poke my sisters or anything. Which of course, I did constantly.”

 

“You must have been such a charming boy,” Edgar rolled his eyes sarcastically. If there was one thing he was thankful for in his past, it was the lack of siblings. However, this wasn't about him at the moment, and his interest in Milo's story was beginning to grow. “Alright, so you moved. Then what happened?”

 

“Hm?” Milo had to snap himself out of his gleeful memory of chasing his sisters around the house to poke them. “Oh, right. So, my mom starts at this new school. Now the thing is, my mom's a great teacher like I mentioned. The problem was that she was new at this school. This was a private school, too, so you know the kids there were extra snobby. My mom had worked public all her life, and this was a big break for her. The only reason I know was because she kept talking about it, it excited her so much. She was happy with the setup, but apparently the kids she taught weren't.

 

“One night we're sleeping, and I hear thwacking against the window, right? So I peer out to check. Lo and behold, there are these assholes my age throwing eggs at our window! They kept shouting slurs about my mom, telling us to go back to where we came from, and making fun of her height.”

 

“Is she short?” Edgar asked, starting to surprisingly feel some sympathy for Milo's plight.

 

“Nope, the exact opposite. She's two meters7 tall, long brown hair and big green eyes. My sisters are practically carbon copies of her, but I look like my old man,” Milo explained as a side note.

 

“I see. Sounds like a lovely family.”

 

“Yeah, they're alright,” Milo said warmly with a small smile, which soon morphed back into his classic smirk as he went back to his story. “But back on track here, the kids kept calling her a tree that should be chopped up for firewood.”

 

“That's terrible,” Edgar condemned and sucked his teeth as Milo continued. Children really could be cruel, and he couldn't help but recount the times he had to teach Hyoga and Isaak to behave when they first arrived.

 

“Yeah, so my mom was humiliated. Sure, she nagged all the time, but I love my mom. Thing is, my dad's got a bad leg. He gets everywhere with a cane, and it's hard for him to get around. My mom's the one that brought home the bread, and she never once complained.

 

“My sisters and I knew that she was exhausted every day. But to her, it was worth it. My dad picked up the slack at home, doing the cooking and the cleaning. Despite that he'd always tell me 'Your mom's the real hero, when you get older you find a woman like her and you take care of each other.'

 

“We lived in a damn shack until she got that job, and all of her hard work was going to get shit on by a bunch of rich brats? No! I had to get even.”

 

“How did you do it?” Never had Edgar been more interested in Milo's decisions, given how poor in taste they typically were.

 

“I found out where they hung out after school from asking around town. Turned out they were part of a small gang. I went up to them one afternoon and told them they owed my mom an apology. You can imagine how _that_ went,” Milo recounted.

 

“So how bad was the fight that broke out?”

 

“It was me against I'd say three or four of these guys. They had pipes, shanks, you name it. I wasn't really expecting anything like that, so all I had were my fists, my teeth and my nails. I was ready to use whatever I had at my disposal. So I jump in with my nails, hoping to at least scratch 'em and draw some blood. Wouldn't you know it, my cosmo woke up right then and there like this-bang!” Milo snapped his fingers as he ended the sentence.

 

Edgar paused, looking up from the mirror with piqued interest. “When you needed it most, right?”

 

Milo nodded. “Yeah, I hear that's the trend apparently. Pretty convenient if you ask me. Same thing happen to you?”

 

“You could say that,” Edgar replied, “but I digress. Keep going.”

 

Milo's eyes lit up, glad to see that he had Camus's attention. “So I used it for the first time. Everyone paused as the nail on my right hand grew and grew a few good centimeters longer. Then a shot of red light went from it to the kid closest to me. Right in his shoulder.” He tucked in his index finger, and tapped the redhead's right shoulder with the remaining fingers to demonstrate.

 

“Of course the kid was terrified, and he kept crying 'It hurts! It hurts!' He leaned in momentarily, quietly adding, “Believe it or not, it wasn't until I was recruited to train as a Saint that I learned Scarlet Needle injected venom. I just thought I sent some strong shot of pain through him or something.

 

“So there's the kid screaming on the pavement, and the other gang members instantly backed off. They looked up to me and begged for mercy. I decided to let them off easy, of course.

 

“Somehow I don't think that's the case,” Edgar retorted.

 

Milo raised a brow. “What, you think I had another reason?”

 

“I think you had no idea what you did, and seeing as you didn't know how to redo it, you acted like you did to scare them.”

 

Milo furrowed his brow and looked away. He sulked, “Either way it worked, didn't it?”

 

“Would you mind helping me with the back? Sorry to interrupt,” Edgar requested, holding up the brush.

 

“Sure, no problem.” Milo rose and armed himself with his own pair of gloves, taking the brush and applying the bleach to the back sections of Camus' hair. He continued, “Finally the kids stopped, and I decided I liked their attitude. I'll be honest, I was a little hellraiser when I was a kid.”

 

“I think prodding your sisters with ultra-sharp nails gave that away,” Edgar told him.

 

“Heh, I guess. Either way, I didn't mind causing a little trouble every now and then. Even though I didn't like that they harassed my mom, the idea of egging strangers' houses sounded fun. They let me join and gave me a jacket for their gang: the Chimeras. The back was black and the sleeves were purple.”

 

“I see,” Edgar nodded slightly, so as not to and botch Milo's work on his hair. “So I suppose you do it to honor them?”

 

“Eh, more like remembering,” Milo answered.

 

Edgar got the sense that wasn't the entirety of the story, given the slight fall in his friend's voice as he spoke. He knew better than to pry.

 

“What about you? Why blue?” Milo figured it'd be as good a story as any, and unless it involved being inspired by some opera, he wouldn't fall asleep while Camus told it.

 

Edgar was silent as he contemplated revealing his reason for choosing the unorthodox shade as his hair color of choice. His past was something he kept very much to himself.

 

The Scorpio Saint could feel the hesitation in his friend, and leaned over to meet his. “Hey, if it's that personal you don't have to talk about it.”

 

“Hmm,” Edgar hummed. “I suppose it's only fair, given what you told me. It's a bit of a longer story, though. Though I suppose if I wanted to keep it short and sweet, it's out of spite and to hide.”

 

“Spite? _You?!_ ” Milo asked in faux shock. He knew Camus was perfectly capable of it, and found himself intrigued. “Who are you trying to hide from?”

 

It was several seconds before Edgar decided to respond. “My mother.”

 

“Did she hurt you?”

 

“She never raised a hand against me. It's-,” Edgar sucked in a breath through his teeth, waving his hands slightly as he struggled to find the right words, “it's complicated.”

 

“Oh,if that's what it is, I get it. Got all sorts of time to kill though. If you're okay talking about it, I'll do my best to try and work it out,” Milo joked, going back to treating the Aquarius Saint's hair.

 

After another brief silence while, fidgeted with his fingers as he spoke. “It's just not something I like to discuss,” he managed to eke out, “you understand.”

 

“If you're implying what I think you are, then I'm not going to tell anyone. I know I can talk a lot, but I know when to keep my mouth shut.”

 

Edgar nodded, once more having to think, trying to figure out just where to start. This was his first time talking about his past, after all. Fully realizing that the exact breakdown of his exit from the womb was irrelevant, he chose to start with a memory of his bedroom window, facing the Eiffel Tower.

 

“I grew up in the heart of Paris. The apartment building where we lived was walking distance to all of the sights that people flock from every corner of the world for. Imagine the most luxurious, grand manor you can think of, and it'll give you a good idea of what my home was like. I had maids at my beck and call, delicious food for every meal, a homeschooling teacher, and all the finest toys a boy could have wanted. You'd think I'd want for nothing, but every bit of it felt worthless.”

 

Edgar's gaze trailed to the window above the bathtub, as if searching through the rays of sun and the clouds for his memories.

 

“I'm afraid, unlike you,” Edgar went on, “I didn't care much for my mother, Genevieve. In turn, she didn't care much for me, either. Not in the sense that a mother _should_ care for a child, at least.

 

“She was-and still is-one of the top fashion designers alive. Every piece she creates, from the sublime to the ridiculous, sells. In record numbers. Everyone wants a 'Genevieve Gerard' something, whether it be her dresses, her purses, her accessories.”He scoffed, “You couldn't begin to imagine how her line of socks sold.  
  
“And she loved it. She didn't know of any other life, really. She was born with a silver spoon in her mouth and one in each hand.”

 

Edgar's tone grew heavier as he carried on. “It was only natural that she would do whatever it took to maintain that lifestyle. The only problem is that when you live a life where everything's for show, you learn to treat people the same way.”

 

“What do you mean?” Milo asked as he resumed painting the bleach on Camus's hair.

 

Edgar looked down towards his feet as he continued, leaning on the chair with his shoulders. “I was just one of her countless accessories. She only gave me the name she did to try and start a trend, which of course was successful. The only times she ever held me were to show me off at parties in her season designs for children's Clothing, or to marvel at my modeling potential.

 

“The guests at all of her parties treated me the same way. They looked on in admiration, and then moved back to their hors d'oeuvres and gossip.” The more he spoke, the stonier his tone became. He let out a deep breath through his slightly flared nostrils, his hatred for those days still able to boil his blood.

 

“So as much as I had all of the creature comforts I needed, I'm sure even in your shack you were far richer than I ever was,” Edgar said, the slightest hint of envy in his voice.

 

Milo remained silent as Edgar spoke, waiting for the opportunity to try and inject at least _something_ positive. The vibe in the room had gotten far too melancholy for his taste. It made him wonder if maybe Edgar had a point about his good luck.

 

“It couldn't have been all bad, right?” he asked, hoping it'd get some ring of positivity out of him.

 

Edgar snapped out of his trance, regaining his focus on the present. “I suppose you're right. I was fed, Clothed, and educated. That's more than many in the world get.”

 

“Nah, I mean besides that.” Milo emphasized with a wave of the brush, “You're not a complete jackass, so that means someone must have been good to you.”

 

For as somber as Edgar had become in digging up these old wounds, the mention of someone being good to him made his eyes light up, his posture straightening out a little.

 

“My father, Colonel Camus,” he said with a smile. “He was involved in extremely confidential matters with the government. At Genevieve's socials they tried everything they could to get our current state in the arms race out of him8.

 

“But he completely ignored them, barely engaging. He was only home one week a month, and he spent it all with me.” He did his best to contain a grin, running a hand over his mouth to hide it.

 

“He'd always come back on a red-eye and wake me up before dawn. Sneaking out so my mother wouldn't hear, he'd take me to the streets. Our breakfast on that first day would always be the same: a fresh baguette at the nearby bakery, just starting their day, with slices of brie and some fresh strawberries.

 

That's all it was. So simple, yet far more delicious than all the meals I'd had in between his visits. He'd take me out to the parks, and in the afternoons we'd go to the Louvre, the Arc, Montmartre or whatever piece of the city we fancied exploring.”

 

“All I just heard was a bunch of French,” Milo grimaced teasingly.

 

Edgar shook his head. “Proof of the taste you lack. Need I now ask _you_ not to interrupt?”

 

Milo raised his hands in surrender, despite still being behind Camus. “Keep going, then.”

 

“My father's alternative plans to Genevieve's parties were the best experiences of my life. He and I would attend for the first few minutes to make an appearance, but then we'd head out to the Palais9 while my mother was engrossed in her conversations.

 

“We knew the place like the backs of our hands, along with the programs for the season. During the intermissions he'd explain everything to me: what the dances meant, what the Italian singers were saying, and have me guess what feelings the highs and lows of the music were meant to convey. I learned some of life's deepest lessons from the stage. It was certainly more meaningful than the weeks I spent in Genevieve's presence.”

 

“I guess it explains why you love that stuff so much,” Milo noted, understanding his friend's passions a bit better. “I'm all done back here. Pass me a shower cap and I'll help put your hair in it. They're right by the sink.”

 

Edgar nodded as he passed along a clear vinyl hair cap, working to contain all of his hair in the front while Milo worked on the back.

 

“He'd tell me,” Edgar went on as they worked, “that she was trying too hard to live in the future. The past is where true lessons are, so the present can be lived more fully.”

 

“God, the way you yammer on makes so much more sense now too,” Milo joked again, with curiosity following soon after. “I don't get it, though. It seems like your dad was a half-decent guy. Why did he marry your mom?”

 

“I actually asked him that once,” Edgar replied, “and he told me, 'Son, men like me at times need to join a partnership with a woman, even if we don't see eye to eye.' He said he hoped that in my time, a couverture10 would be an archaic thing of the past.”

 

“A what?” Milo asked, a baffling look crossing his face as he took his seat once more.

 

“Never mind,” Edgar waved it off, figuring diving into the obscure slang would steer them off course. “The point is, he had to do it. Of course, he assured me that he had always wanted a son, and that I was the best one he could have asked for.”

 

“Well, that's rather touching,” Milo said with a smile, leaning back in his chair and resting his hands on his torso. “I bet you carry those feelings to your trainees, huh?”

 

Edgar held up a hand to stop where Milo was going with that statement. “They're _not_ 'trainees,'” he said assertively, before taking on a less aggressive approach. “Those boys are my students. They look to me for wisdom on how to navigate the world and the battlefield, and I take that seriously. Calling them 'trainees' does not encompass all of the lessons I'm teaching them. I see them no less than how fathers see their sons, as that's exactly what they are.”

 

“Alright, alright, jeez,” Milo relented, “my bad.”

 

Edgar shook his head and sighed, working to discard the gloves and wash away the remaining bleach. “It's fine. I suppose I got carried away there. A lot of the lingo back at the Sanctuary used to bother me quite a bit.”

 

“Eh, it's alright. You know, though,” Milo said after a brief pause, “it's sort of interesting.”

 

“What is?”

 

“How much we take after our folks. More than we realize. I bet you're lot more like your dad than you think.”

 

Edgar pondered on the same idea. “Aside from my tastes, I can't see how similar I am to him.”  
  
“You really don't see it?”

 

“No, should I?”

 

“Huh,” the Scorpio Saint said, “you really don't?”

 

“Once more, no.”

 

“Alright then,” Milo challenged, clearing his throat, “let's see if I can't find a few examples. You don't really slouch, do you?”

 

“Slouching is a habit of the crass. Speaking of, I see you haven't taken my advice on the matter have you?” Edgar accused.

 

“That's because you're not my mother,” Milo countered, adjusting himself after being called out for slumping. “I bet your kids say the same thing about you when you bark at them for it.”

 

“Who says I _bark_ at my boys? I'm simply telling them what my fath-”

 

Edgar paused when he realized what slipped. Seeing Milo rest his head on his fist and smile, the Aquarius Saint could only scowl.

 

“If I remember right, you were always polishing your Cloth, too. Come on,” Milo said with a sly grin referring to the armor they wore in battle, “when was the last time you worked on it?”

 

Edgar narrowed his eyes then glanced away, an admittedly reluctant look on his face. “Two days ago.”

 

“HAH! You see? You're obsessive! Even the place where you live is spotless! This is a cabin in the middle of nowhere and it looks like the logs are painted on. It's so clean, you'd never believe two teenagers live here!” Milo gestured towards the room behind Camus, which was just as pristine as he described.

 

Edgar quickly retaliated with “I've taught the boys to have respect for their living spaces. A clean environment facilitates a clear head.”

 

A skeptical look creased Milo's brow. “Really? How are their rooms?”

 

Camus gave an annoyed huff, “I like to give them their privacy, so I don't quite know about their personal spaces. But that's irrelevant. They know how to clean their dishes, sweep, dust, and make their beds. That's more than they knew upon arrival.”

 

“Do they do the laundry, too?”

 

“Yes, though oftentimes I've noticed mismatched socks on them. It's a common occurrence. I would be fine with it, had they not refused several times over to procure the matching sock. It sounds like they know where they are, but won't bring them out,” he accused the youths, prompting a snort out of his companion. “ _What,_ may I ask, is so funny about that?”

 

Edgar looked irritated at the man across from him, who was squeezing his eyes shut to hold back a giggle as his friend went on about the socks. “Remind me how old they are again?” Milo managed to eke out.

 

Then it clicked. The Aquarius Saint pressed two fingers to his temple, then rubbing to his eye in an effort to rub away the dismay and disgust. “Looks as if we'll need to have a talk once you leave,” he grunted, while Milo finally let loose a cackle at Camus' naivety.

 

Edgar crossed his arms in frustration as he waited for the Scorpio Saint to calm down, so he could change the subject. “Well, then, how about yourself?”

 

Milo shrugged, wiping his eyes with a hand. “Dunno, you tell me.”

 

“Well, one of your parents had to be rather...” he took pause, trying to find the most tactful euphemism for his actual opinion, Milo raising his eyebrows in both amusement and warning. Camus nodded to himself when the word came to him, “outspoken.”

 

“Well, I guess mom _does_ have a mouth on her,” Milo trailed, trying to think of what else he might have in common with his family.

 

“Is anyone rather short-tempered?”

 

“I guess all of us kind of are,” Milo chuckled, “except maybe my dad, thank God.”

 

“I see.”

 

“Do your students know their parents?” Milo pried.

 

“Isaak doesn't. They died when he was young. He's been raised by the village. Hyoga recalls his mother, though. He speaks rather fondly of her, and from what I understand she passed away in a cruise accident. He's got a soft heart, that one, probably from her. Certainly can be cracked a little more easily than Isaak. It's not something I approve of, at least not during training.”

 

“Ah, come on. Don't you think you're being a little too harsh?” Milo asked.

 

“How so? A bleeding heart will be your ruin in a fight. You should know that more than anyone.”

 

“Hey,” Milo began to argue, “just because you had a shitty mom doesn't mean you get to berate someone who didn't.” It was practically an offense to Milo, while also reminding him to ask Camus if he could make long distance calls while he was visiting. “What if it was his dad that cared for him more? Wouldn't you be able to relate? You actually looked happy when you were talking about him. It's the same damn thing, so knocking him for it makes no sense.”

 

Edgar let out a sigh through his nose, his lips pursed as he took in his friend's valid argument. “Very well. Either way, he needs to be tougher out there. Dwelling on the past will impede him from controlling what could happen in a dangerous situation.”

 

“I guess I see where you're coming from,” Milo said, calming himself down. “Just take it easy on him. It's obvious you want the best for them, so loosen up a bit. They need someone they can trust.”

 

“I'll try to keep that in mind,” Edgar agreed. He rose from his chair. “I say this needs a few more minutes. In the meantime, I'll get some newspapers I've been saving to lay out on the floor.”

 

“I'll get the colors, then.” Milo followed, leaving the restroom to allow Camus to wash off the bleach.

 

 

1“Best” in Spanish - <https://translate.google.com/#auto/en/mejor>

2Masami Kurumada, the creator of Saint Seiya, has noted that he originally intended for Milo to be Cygnus Hyoga's instructor and master. He opted to use Camus (i.e. Edgar) instead after realizing the three would have common ground with their use of ice based attacks - <http://saintseiya.wikia.com/wiki/Cygnus_Hy%C5%8Dga> (Notes section)

3The world _milo_ is apple in greek- <https://translate.google.com/#auto/el/apple>

4Souvlaki is a Grecian street food consisting of grilled meats and vegetables, usually served with pita, garnishes and even fried potatoes- <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Souvlaki>

5Greece is broken up into several regional units, each with their own municipalities. Thessaloniki is one such municipality in the Central Macedonia region, with the capital city being Thessaloniki. One of the cities in this unit is also Neapoli-Sykies. <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thessaloniki_(regional_unit>)

6 <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Departments_of_France>

72 meters is approximately 6ft 7in

8France was also involved with nuclear weapons testing during the Cold War - <http://www.atomicarchive.com/History/coldwar/page11.shtml>

9The Palais Garnier is a historic opera house in Paris, holding concerts, ballets and operas - <https://www.operadeparis.fr/en/season-16-17>

10The french term for a beard, a slang term in LGBT culture for a woman that a gay man enters into a relationship with to conceal his orientation - <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beard_(companion>). [Special thanks to beau-cul from tumblr.com for this information](http://sanctuarycolumn.tumblr.com/post/146675229419/beau-cul-quartermaster-past-sanctuarycolumn-hey).

 


	2. Part 2

His damp hair was now a pale, strawberry blond thanks to the bleach. Edgar once more sat across from Milo as they prepared the hair dyes.

  
  


Milo tossed a box over to his dyeing partner. “Can't believe they don't carry this brand over here,” he commented, pulling up a box of his own. A woman with purple hair was on the front. The color of the dye was labeled as _Midnight_ across the bottom of the box.

  
  


Edgar caught the box and examined it. On his, the same woman had blue hair, with the color labeled as _Crystal Ocean._ “They don't,” he responded, opening the box to remove the tube of dye inside. “Would you mind mixing it while I get ready?”

  
  


Milo took the tube from him. “What does your kid Isaak use?”

  
  


“Isaak?” Edgar asked, confused by the question.

  
  


“Yeah, the literal greenhorn. Whatever he's using looks pretty good.”

  
  


“Nothing,” the Aquarius Saint replied nonchalantly, using his fingers to undo the knots in his hair.

  
  


Milo almost dropped the cup in surprise. “You mean to tell me it grows in green? You sure he's not just sneaking off to do it in his room or something?”

  
  


Edgar felt practically insulted. “I think I'd know if someone else was coloring their hair under my own roof,” he retorted, finished sectioning his hair.

  
  


“What is it with Sainthood and odd hair? Have you noticed? I mean hell, look at Mu,” Milo continued, beginning to mix the dye components. “I didn't think Tibetans came in anything other than brunette, and there he is. You know that has to be natural, too.”

  
  


“Very true,” Edgar added as he reapplied the petroleum jelly to his hairline, “goodness knows, even if he bleached until his hair was straw, he could never get it that shade of lilac if he were brunette.”

  
  


“I mean, I just thought it had something to do with his powers, is all. Decent guy, though. A little blunt, but it's sort of refreshing.” Milo answered with a fond smile.

  
  


“That it is. How has he been?” Edgar asked.

  
  


Milo's smile faded as he continued prepping Edgar's dye. “Wouldn't know. Haven't seen him in a while. Nobody has since he left.”

  
  


“Mu left? When?” he pried, now partaking in justified shock.

  
  


“About a year ago. Didn't tell anyone why, either. I had to hear the news from Aldebaran. Even he's got no clue where the guy went, and you know how close they were.”

  
  


“Have you thought about why he left?”

  
  


Milo only responded with a shake of his head, his eyes focused on the dye in his cup. “Damn stuff,” he muttered, “they keep making it thicker.”

  
  


The Aries and Taurus Saints did have an exceptional friendship, which Edgar slightly envied. Catching the dismay hidden in Milo's eyes, he watched the way his hand stirred the cup hurriedly.

  
  


It was clear Mu's absence bothered him. Edgar found it strange, given how little he had witnessed them speak to each other. He didn't quite know if it was appropriate to speak on it, though, instead donning a clean pair of gloves.

  
  


“You didn't finish your story,” the Scorpio Saint stated, before handing the prepared blue dye to Edgar.

  
  


The Aquarius Saint passed the mirror to Milo once more in exchange for the dye. “You're right,” he acknowledged. “Care to hear more?”

  
  


“Why else would I ask?” Milo answered curtly.

  
  


“Alright then,” Edgar relented, “Like I said, Colonel Camus always spent his time at home with me.”

  
  


Even though he had never gotten this far into his life story with another person. His willingness to divulge on the details of his past grew as Milo's grip on the mirror was beginning to relax. He chose a front section to apply the dye to as he resumed his tale.

  
  


“There were several times where even I grew curious about his role in the government. I would ask him what he knew, but he never indulged me. All he'd say is that discussing it could put anyone, including me, at risk. I soon discovered how serious he was about that.”

  
  


“What happened?” Milo asked, curiosity piqued.

  
  


“You and I are about the same age, right? You probably remember how things were a few years back during the protests.”

  
  


“Sure, who wouldn't have?”

  
  


“Back then, one of the reasons my father insisted on coming home was not only for a break, but to ensure Genevieve and I were safe, given how close Mai 681 was to where we lived. It didn't end then, either. Things on the whole died down, but there were a few lingering groups that took their cause to an extreme.

  
  


“I must have been about fourteen. I was asleep, having returned from dinner with my father and Genevieve. I heard the sound of glass breaking, followed by a scream from one of the maids. Rising out of bed, I quickly rushed down to hall to ensure she was safe. It was then I encountered one of the intruders, who punched me in the jaw. He was followed by one of his comrades, who hit me with a club."

  
  


“Ouch,” Milo commented, as Edgar moved to another section of his hair.

  
  


“Down I went, and everything became blurry. I heard a few more follow in, and they rushed ahead of me. I strained to get up and find my parents; I assumed they had to be there for them. It was tough to manage, but I stumbled my way into their room. About three of them were trying to attack. I managed to see my father punching a few but they all stopped as soon as he grabbed his pistol from his drawer.

  
  


“He fired off a warning shot above his head and all of them froze. He lowered his arm down, slowly, threatening them that he'd fire again. I can't remember the words exactly, but I remember his deliberate motion.” Edgar raised his brush into the air, lowering his arm down slowly and pointing it at Milo.

  
  


“I remember the look in his eyes. All the love and warmth I knew was gone, in its place was the look of a man who was ready to kill. My blood ran cold just seeing it, and I wasn't even the one at risk.”  
  
  


“He must have had practice, then.” Milo theorized grimly, “My old man gets the same look in his eyes when someone talks crap about my mom.”

  
  


Edgar looked past the mirror at Milo, surprised at such an observation. “Are you saying-”

  
  


Milo locked eyes with Edgar, not allowing him to finish. “How do you think my dad got that bum leg?2”

  
  


There was silence between them as they absorbed the revelation of yet another similarity.

  
  


“From what I understand, he was a sniper in Korea3,” Edgar explained, “Yours?”

  
  


“One of the Resistance troupes in World War Two. Course, he had no formal training, so you can see how it didn't quite work out. My mom was a volunteer at the local hospital. They met the day he had caved and gotten therapy for the hole a Nazi put in his leg. That was many years before, of course. Guess my old man is a silver fox,” he chuckled.

  
  


“I don't think I met anyone else at the Sanctuary in a similar situation,” Edgar commented.

  
  


“Me neither,” Milo responded, “then again, I don't think a lot of those guys know much about their parents. Not enough they're willing to talk about, anyway,” he said as he went back to applying the dye. “It's kind of nice to talk to someone who knows their parents as well as I did. Or at least, doesn't hate their guts entirely.”

  
Edgar nodded. “I'll be honest, I have a similar sentiment. I think we both even started training around the same time too, didn't we?”

  
  


“Yeah, I must have been about fifteen.”

  
  


“Same here.”

  
  


“Apparently we're late bloomers at that. Have you heard how old some of these guys were when they got theirs? I heard the Virgo Saint was seven! _Seven!_ How the hell does that work?!”

  
  


“Really?” Edgar asked in surprise, “Well, I suppose he's just that gifted.”

  
  


Milo lowered the mirror to object to the ridiculous conclusion. “At seven?! I still wet the bed at seven!” Realizing the embarrassing fact he just disclosed, he quickly cleared his throat and hurriedly raised the mirror again. “Point is you're telling me that at the same exact age, he could grasp the concept of the universe's energy flowing through all living beings?”

  
  


The Aquarius Saint let out a sigh and lowered his brush. “I don't make up the rules of this world, Milo. Asking me about why things work the way they do will lead you nowhere. I don't even think the Pope would know why someone barely learning their way around would have so much power like that. You're better off embracing the strangeness before it drives you insane.”

  
  


Milo crinkled his nose. “You're way too forgiving about some of the strange shit going on around us.”

  
  


Edgar couldn't help but let out a chuckle. “I just figure there's no point in mulling over things I can't control. I'm done in the front. Help me in the back and I'll keep going,” he requested, handing his friend the brush.

  
  


Taking it and placing the mirror down, Milo grabbed another pair of gloves. He began to brush the dye along the back sections of the Camus's hair while he continued.

  
  


“So they fled, and my father made an appropriate report with the police. We thought that might be the end of it, but I found out the hard way that it wasn't.

  
  


“A few months later, they returned. I remember that night thinking about my father when I went to bed. I know I've already mentioned it, but,” Edgar took a breath before he went on, “you have to understand. We could have been beaten to death. Yet he remained steadfast, ready to kill if he had to. I had never seen anything like that back then.”

  
  


“Nah, I get it,” Milo responded, waving it off. “Hell, it's why we have to train and study before we're worthy of this job, right?”

  
  


Given his hollowed voice, Edgar had a feeling that Milo wasn't looking for an answer.

  
  


“I was about to fall asleep when the sound of breaking glass awoke me once more. This time it was far louder than before, and I soon realized why. The intruders had arrived through my bedroom's window. Before I had the chance to flee, they put a rag over my mouth. After a brief struggle with the bitter taste, I passed out.

  
  


“I awoke in the back of a truck. My hands and feet were bound with rope. My mouth was taped shut, and I could hear the driver and his passenger discuss their plan. They intended to hold me for ransom in exchange for what my father knew.”

  
  


“Holy shit,” Milo whistled, “Those guys weren't messing around.”

  
  


“They were certain whatever he knew would help sway the people to their side. Even if they had little idea of what information he held, that didn't matter. If anything, the kidnapping would hopefully get the message across that the government should listen to them.”

  
  


“So what did you do?”

  
  


“At first, nothing. I had no idea what I could do to break out. The ropes were tied too tight for me to escape, and there was a group member in the back keeping an eye on me. He didn't notice I was awake yet. He was lost in conversation with the other two.

  
  


“All I could think of was the look in my father's eyes that night. As I thought of it, the blood in my veins went cold again. Colder than ever before. I had chicken skin4 all over me, and I could see my guard's breath as he began to shiver.”

  
  


Milo slowed his pace with the brush, more focused on the story than tending roots. “What were you thinking about, regarding your dad?”

  
  


Edgar lowered his head, looking to his hands. He struggled to find the right words to describe what he felt the night of his kidnapping, the night his cosmos awoke. “I guess I was just thinking...if I could get them to see that look, they'd turn that car around and send me home. If I could make them certain that I could kill them, they'd leave me alone. Of course, I had nothing to threaten them with. Then I looked to the frost that had formed on my hands.

  
  


“It was winter, but not cold enough to warrant ice on my fingertips. It had to mean something. Given my circumstances, I decided to experiment. Trying to concentrate on that intimidating feeling again, the cold spread to my wrists.” Edgar touched his wrist to demonstrate. “When I gave it all my focus, the ice shot up to my shoulders.” His hand moved up to rest on his shoulder.

  
  


“I remember we hit a bump in the road at that point, and I was jostled to the other side of the van. As I skidded across the floor, I left a trail of rime behind me, a cloudy, freezing fog starting to form around my body.

  
  


“Wondering about the fog, the man in the back with me tried to pick me up. Needless to say that wasn't the smartest move on his part; the instant he touched me, he reeled back. His hand had blackened from frostbite.

  
  


“There it was, the opportunity I needed. I focused once more, and the cold spread to my chest, my legs, my feet. My whole body glowed gold, and I could feel the remaining air freeze. I raised my bounded fists,” he mimicked the motion as he narrated, “and I swung them down onto the floor.

  
  


“Everything in the truck became solid ice, and I was tossed about as the truck swerved. There were no windows in the back, but I could hear screeching and the sound of car horns as we spun out of control. Eventually we crashed into something with a hard thud, and I blacked out again.”

  
  


“So your cosmo really did wake up when you needed it,” Milo commented, putting his attentions back to the Aquarius Saint's hair. “At this point it might as well be a trope or something.”

  
  


“Regardless, when I awoke I was in a hospital bed. My father was at my side along with a man in the strangest armor I had ever seen. I'd learn soon enough that it was the Eagle Saint Clarence.”

  
  


“Have you met the new girl that took on that Cloth?”

  
  


“I recall seeing her around, yes. I believe she's training one of Hyoga's friends now.”

  
  


“Her friend, the new Ophiucus Saint, is pretty hot,” Milo noted.

  
  


“Your decorum is truly unmatched,” Edgar said sarcastically before continuing. “I asked what had happened to the kidnappers. My father insisted it was irrelevant and was just glad to know I was safe. He introduced me to the _overdressed_ man beside him, and it was then he explained his involvement with the Sanctuary.

  
  


“Haven't you noticed that on all of our missions as Saints proper, we haven't had to deal much with the authorities? Carrying our Cloths anywhere should raise questions, but nobody bats an eye.”

  
  


“It is pretty convenient,” Milo responded, “almost too convenient if you ask me. Take it your dad told you why we can get away with it?”

  
  


“It's because numerous governments work with the Sanctuary, and my father is the representative for France. Nobody else outside of him and the President knew of Athena's army and their purpose. Based on what I had done in the van, I showed potential to join them. I left with Clarence as soon as I recovered from the harrowing events of the evening."

  
  


“I'd ask if you were alright with all of that, but I'm guessing you were,” Milo shrugged.

  
  


Edgar nodded. “After everything that had happened, I was ready to accept anything as truth.”

  
  


“Did your mo-uh- Did Genevieve have anything to say about it?”

  
  


“I'm not entirely sure what Genevieve would think, but according to my father he'd fabricate a story. He probably told her I'd been chosen to attend a modeling school for haute fashion or something. She'd buy it, no doubt about that.

  
  


“Besides,” he said, a touch of sadness filling his voice, “My father left me with words I'd never forget. He told me that if I had this power then I had to hone it and use it for the benefit of mankind. It was my destiny.” His eyes began to mist as he recalled his father's last words to him. “However, I had to keep myself safe, and to do that, he suggested standing out.”

  
  


“How _the fuck_ does that work?” Milo asked, incredulous.

  
  


“While clearly not a fan of the more extreme methods used, my father supported the social movements. It made sense, given his preferences.”

  
  


“What do you mean by preferences?”

  
  


Edgar turned his whole body around to meet Milo's eyes. “I didn't make it clear enough earlier?”

  
  


“You never make anything clear!” the Scorpio Saint complained. “Hell, getting you to admit you hated olives was like pulling teeth! You telling this story is the clearest you've ever been!”

  
  


“Passing them over at dinner should have been enough of a hint,” Edgar retaliated as he turned back around, “but I again digress. Let's just say he had his own reasons for supporting reform, and end it there.

  
  


“He suggested that by using a disguise my mother would never pay attention to, I'd be safe.

  
  


“She always followed trends and habits, but there were still certain rules of society she followed. If I broke them, she'd naturally avoid finding me in any way. If she knew what I was recruited for, she would just show me off again, as opposed to letting me do my job. It would lead to the exposure of the Saints to the rest of the world. Which, as we know, isn't ideal.

  
  


“So, I grew my hair long and chose to color it. My father recommended something that would drive Genevieve crazy.” He smirked as he grabbed his dye box. “She hated blue.”

  
  


“I guess you even went one step further with your eyebrows too, huh?” Milo snickered.

  
  


Edgar looked to him once more, confused. “What's strange about my eyebrows?”

  
  


“They're-you know what, nevermind,” Milo surrendered.

  
  


For all the strange things Camus easily accepted, of course he'd never notice that his brows grew in forked. Milo had always thought he cleverly waxed them, but it seemed that like so many other strange things around them, he'd have to just accept it and move on.

  
  


Once Milo laid the finishing touches on Edgar's hair, they placed it in a hair cap. “Alright,” Edgar said as he rose to stretch his legs, “It's your turn.”

  
  


Milo sat himself down in his chair and discarded his gloves, pulling out his purple dye. Edgar mixed the dye as Milo began to section his own hair.

  
  


“Have you heard from your old man since?” Milo asked.

  
  


Edgar shook his head as he slowed down his mixing. “No. He told me specifically never to contact him again after that.”

  
  


“Why? Wouldn't he want to know how you were doing?”

  
  


The Aquarius Saint now recalled why he didn't want to recount this story. “He-...We agreed it was best.”

  
  


“How the hell is that a good idea?” the other Gold Saint objected, “Don't you miss him?”

  
  


Edgar gave no response.

  
  


Realizing that probing him for anything else was pointless, the Scorpio Saint went back to sectioning his hair, frustrated for his friend.

  
  


“How did they find you? The Saints?” Edgar asked, hoping for a change in subject that would break the tense silence.

  
  


Looking to the ground, Milo sucked in a breath through his teeth, letting it out loudly through his nose. “It's not something _I_ like to discuss.”

  
  


“Well, you do realize this works both ways, correct?”

  
  


Milo looked up towards Camus, his normally hardened eyes searched his friend's expression.

  
  


“It's only if you want to, of course. There's a reason I never spoke much about why I chose blue.”

  
  


Milo's eyes flicked back down as he finished sectioning his hair. Grabbing the jelly, he idly turned the container in his hands. He was mulling over the conversation and deciding if he and Camus were close enough to talk about his past.

  
  


Deciding that pursuing the topic might not have been ideal, Edgar tried to shift it. “You'd like the boys. Isaak reminds me very much of-”

  
  


“I had a hell of a time with the Chimeras,” Milo began, dabbing his fingers into the jelly. Tracing it slowly along his hairline, he recounted his wilder days with a weakened nostalgia.

  
  


“We did everything we possibly thought we could get away with. Cheating in class, egging houses, blasting our radios, speeding in Big Basil's car- with no licenses of course,” he let out a jaded chuckle as he remembered it, “staying out late and making our moms worried sick. It made me feel alive in a way I never had before. I'm not proud of it now, obviously, but this was before I knew the extent of what I could do.

  
  


“Besides, you knew firsthand what it was like back then. The other Saints were just kids, so they don't know. I don't think some of them were even born yet.

  
  


“Every day we woke up something crazier in the papers than the day before. Either people were choking to death in some jungle out east, or the Russians and Americans could end the world with the push of a button. It can put you on edge. Everything was fire around the world, so why not do a little burning of my own?”

  
  


Edgar listened intently as Milo took his purple dye. Holding up the mirror for him, he waited for Milo to continue.

  
  


“I was a huge asset to the gang. With what I could do, nobody messed with us. Not even the cops as long as we didn't go overboard.

  
  


“With that much power, came that much more influence. A lot of these groups, you know, they have a sort of hierarchy. Every new member starts at the bottom, but as you prove yourself with whatever crime you managed to pull, you went up. When you went up, you got to start making the rules. Where we would meet, what we'd do next, who could stay and who could go, and where we'd decide to try and make our new territory."

  
  


“I'm guessing with Scarlet Needle,” Edgar said, “It was easier for you than most to ascend the ranks.”

  
  


“I wouldn't say it was a cakewalk, but yeah, it helped. Especially when we met with rival gangs. Territory was everything. The fact that I could make anyone beg for mercy by just pointing my finger at them made things a lot easier for us.

  
  


“I quickly made friends, too. There was Big Basil, we called him that because the guy was just a giant. I didn't think people came in that size before I met him. He was the only one of us with a car, so he did the driving. No license, like I mentioned, but that wasn't a huge problem for us thanks to me. Good enough guy when you didn't piss him off. He could slug you back to the stone age if he wanted to.

  
  


“Another guy I hung out with for a bit was Theo. Wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed, but he could perform surgery with a pocket knife he was so good with it. He had a missing tooth, which he picked out of his own jaw after it was broken in a fight. The guy had the highest tolerance for pain I've ever seen. It took three pricks from Scarlet Needle for him to feel anything back then. Now of course it'd be different. Or maybe not, who knows.”

  
  


Edgar noticed Milo's eyes dance as he recalled his old clan. A boyish smile tugged at the corners of his mouth and his voice was filled with nostalgia.

  
  


“Jordy and Cyrus were twins. They caused the most trouble out of all of us. They'd whack car hoods.with bats just to see who could leave the most dents. Any chance somebody in the crew rubbed them the wrong way, they'd send a kick right to their groin. Big Basil and I were usually the ones to tear them away from whatever petty fight they got into. Half the time they'd just get each other upset when there was nothing else to do.”

  
  


“Who was the leader?” Edgar asked.

  
  


Milo switched to the other side of his head and applied the purple dye as he continued. “Damien,” his voice took on a more serious tone. “He had this low, intimidating voice. Scared the shit out of us any time he got angry, which wasn't very often. You'd have to really screw up for him to get upset.

  
  


“That's what was so terrifying about it. You knew you fucked up when he'd take you aside for a 'talk'. Theo got his arm broken, and Jordy and Cyrus got matching scars across their faces.”

  
  


“Sounds oddly familiar, doesn't it?” Edgar asked, recalling their leader in Greece.

  
  


Milo nodded gravely. “I definitely did my best to respect him, but as you can imagine, he was worried about me. They all were. Even if they were terrified of Damien, there was at least an order to things, a way of life. It couldn't be messed with, and Scarlet Needle was a threat to that order.”

  
  


He handed his brush to Edgar, removing his gloves before continuing. “Help me finish up, and I'll keep going.”

  
  


Edgar rose and took the brush and dye. Working on the back of Milo's head, he waited for more details.

  
  


Milo let out a heavy sigh, and his shoulders slightly sagged. “Damien and the others took me to a warehouse one day. It was a little after my fifteenth. Big locked the door behind us. There was Damien with a couple of the other leaders from other parts of town. They all surrounded me. Said we needed to talk.

  
  


“Now, I had done my damnedest to not mess up. I kept my shit in line, I did everything I was told. So I had no idea why I was brought in to have a 'talk' with pretty much all the big shots. Damien said that was exactly it. I was too good. They were here to congratulate me. He pulled out a knife and told Gino and Cyrus to hold me down.”

  
  


“My God, Milo.” Edgar said wide-eyed. “Did he harm you?”

  
  


“Well, do you see any cuts on this perfect mug?” he asked back slyly, gesturing to his visage.

  
  


Edgar shook his head with a sigh through his nose, a scowl folding his brow. “You know what I mean.”

  
  


Milo made an uncomfortable grunt. “I mean, yeah, I was okay. Never got the chance to find out what he wanted to do. You can guess what happened then.”

  
  


“Timing is really everything, isn't it?” Edgar jested.

  
  


“Nobody had any idea why I started glowing gold all of a sudden, much less me. But it was about ten against one, so they still figured the odds were stacked in their favor. A few of them jumped on me, and I fired Scarlet Needle at them.

  
  


“The first one I hit was Jordi. He hit the ground, but he didn't just wince or cry like everyone else had in the past. He was screaming his head off. I could see the veins popping out of his head,” he detailed, pressing a few fingers to his temples..“The venom spread though his body faster than any other attack before. The others backed away, except for Damien.

  
  


“I remember the crazed look in his eye. Fear, anger, envy... he wasn't gonna let me keep going. He jumped on me, and I remember him digging his knife in my finger. He drew blood for sure, but I managed to kick him off.”

  
  


He held up his left index finger for Edgar to see, tracing a faded scar around the base. “There it is. Fifteen years later and I'm still a little numb around there. It's why I usually use my right hand unless the guy's up close. Like Damien was... The numbness is good for other things,” he added with a dry chuckle.

  
  


“Didn't ask for the details of your shower time, Milo,” Camus shot back. “Continue.”

  
  


“Alright, alright,” He waved off Edgar's jab. “By that point, I had enough. Here were these people that I thought I could trust. I thought we had something together, but no. Even kids can play politics. I pointed Scarlet Needle at him, and I used it over and over again.

  
  


Milo shifted in his chair. Rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand, his voice grew burdened, terse.

  
  


“I didn't care what would happen right then. I was too angry. He was screaming as well, louder than anything I had ever heard before. His eyes rolled into the back of his head and he seized up. I didn't care. I kept going. Finally, it ended.” Milo was sitting tense in the chair, his eyes focused on the red of his fingernails, lost in thought.

  
  


“How?”

  
  


“How do you think, man?!” Milo near shouted through a cracked voice, whipping around to face him. Dye splattered on the wall, Edgar only glancing at it before putting his full attention to his distressed friend. Tears formed in the corners of Milo's eyes as he described the rest in angry detail.

  
  


“His face went red, his eyes bulged. His arms and his fingers swelled up. Bloody red froth poured out of his mouth. He just laid there, helpless, choking and drowning in his own blood until he quit moving altogether. I threw up watching it.”

  
  


“I see,” Edgar replied..He had always heard that the famed fifteenth blow of Scarlet Needle was instantly fatal, but he didn't know to what degree the attack would make its victim suffer.

  
  


Milo flopped back in his chair, wiping his eyes again. “I-you gotta excuse me.” he said, taking a relaxing breath. “I haven't told anyone about that.”

  
  


Edgar calmly resumed his work. “I don't blame you. It sounds terrifying. I'm sorry you had to learn about your powers in such a horrific way.”

  
  


Milo nodded somberly. “Thanks.”

  
  


“So what was the aftermath of all this?”

  
  


“The others had run off earlier, dragging Jordi away before I could do anything worse to him. I sat there with Damien, unable to move out of fear for what I had done. His body was just...laying there there, staring at me. God knows how long I sat there, staring right back.

  
  


“I was too scared to go home. I wasn't a good catholic boy anymore- I was a murderer now, after all. I wrapped up my cut with a piece of my shirt and draped my jacket over his body once I gathered up the courage to give him some kind of proper treatment. Didn't want the damn thing anymore, anyway.”

  
  


“Why not?”

  
  


“Why the hell do you think?!” Milo whipped around to face him once more, sending yet more dye across the bathroom, this time finding purchase on the sink and shower curtain. “They all stabbed me in the back! Wearing the damn thing was just an ugly reminder of it!”

  
  


Edgar raised a brow calmly. He'd point out the utterly dramatic mess after they were done with this subject. “Then why dye your hair a matching color?”

  
  


Milo lowered his gaze as he tried to search for a reason. “I guess,” he began to string together, “I guess I just liked the idea of what it meant once, you know?”

  
  


“Tell me more about that, what it meant to you,” Edgar insisted, gesturing to Milo to turn around so he could finish.

  
  


“What is this, an interview?” Milo sassed as he turned around, slumping for a moment before sitting up.

  
  


“Seeing how much you were asking me earlier, it might as well be. Now stop making a mess and go on.”

  
  


“I mean, I dunno,” Milo strained to think, now both distracted and amused by the splatters, “I guess the brotherhood. Being there for one another. Having earned your place along with everyone else. Being part of an elite. I guess I sort of have that again now, come to think of it.”

  
  


Edgar finished applying the last of the dye and got it under a cap before more damage could be wrought. “I guess we are sort of a group, aren't we?”

  
  


“Yeah, except we still barely talk to one another,” Milo whined, kicking his legs, “What with Mu disappearing and all the stairs between our temples.”

  
  


“It is a rather odd design choice,” Edgar commented, recalling the flights of stairs between their guardian temples.

  
  


“Finally, something we can agree on! Either way, it's really not the same there. In my gang we used to know everything about each other, down to the food we liked and color of our underwear. We've dyed each others' hair countless times, spilling our life stories now apparently, and I don't even know your whole name.” Milo let out a sardonic laugh at the strange irony of it.

  
  


Edgar withheld his objections regarding his name, but was concerned regarding Milo's opinion of him. He found it odd that he would care in the first place, but perhaps they truly weren't as well into their friendship as he had thought.

  
  


He sat back in his chair, the two beginning the long wait for their hair to absorb the dye.

  
  


“What happened next?” Edgar asked as he pulled off his gloves to discard them, frowning when he noticed the purple stain on his wrist.

  
  


“Eventually a couple of scouts found me in the warehouse. Said they were there to help. They took the body and stitched up my hand. They told me they were gonna take me somewhere to make me stronger, to help me to control my power.”

  
  


“I'm guessing you had a lot of questions.”

  
  


“Of course I did! Who the hell were these people? How did they know I was there? What were they gonna tell my mom? Even their best explanations made no damn sense to me, but as soon as I heard police sirens the reality of it set in. I realized I had no choice and followed them.”

  
  


“What _did_ they tell your family?”

  
  


“Told them I was going to a correctional facility. They couldn't visit me until I finished the program. That was all well and good for me, because I wasn't ready to look them in the eye after what I did.”

  
  


Edgar placed a hand to his chin in thought. “If I may say something about that.”

  
  


“What? About Damien?”

  
  


“Yes.”

  
  


“What about it?”

  
  


“I don't think you should be so harsh on yourself about it. You were young, you were only acting in self-defense, after all.”

  
  


Milo scoffed at Edgar's attempt at comfort and looked away. “Easy for you to say. Your kidnappers just froze up. Nice and quick. I had to watch Damien suffer. Plus the whole, knowing him forever thing...”

  
  


Edgar crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “You're missing the point. I mourn their loss too, but I don't let myself get caught up in what happened. I suggest you do the same. It's for your own good.”

  
  


“Bullshit!” Milo objected angrily, “Camus, after what I've seen I'd be a heartless bastard to not let it affect me. I mean, my God! I control life and death with a finger!” he ranted, pointing his scarlet fingernail to the ceiling.

  
  


Milo took a breath, “Look, between you and me, I know I brag a lot about what I can do. I tell everyone, one sting from this and they'll be begging me to stop or go crazy from the pain. That I know firsthand, since I used it a lot in the gang.

  
  


“Here's the thing: Eventually, that madness goes away. People recover. Even if they're bad, maybe after this they'll change their mind. But death? There's no going back from that. No hope of changing your mind and doing something better with yourself. So yeah, I want people to be scared, I'm just as scared as they are of this. I don't want to kill again unless I have to!”

  
  


“If a person's intent is harmful to themselves or to others,” Edgar argued, his voice only rising enough to show his assertion, “then they must be eliminated, at all costs. No exceptions.”

  
  


“You're ready to slam down the gavel that quickly?! What if you're wrong? What if it's one of your kids that we're talking about? What if _you're_ the one that ends up dead because of a snap decision like that?”

  
  


As calmly as he had been through the entirety of the conversation, Edgar gave his conclusion. “It's all the same to me. Foolishness and evil must be accosted.”

  
  


Milo couldn't believe what he was hearing. “Jesus, Camus, listen to yourself! How can you be so cold?!” he asked, exasperated.

  
  


“It has nothing to do with being cold. It's just the reality of the situation. As long as I followed what I believe to be right and with my best effort, what happens to me or to anyone else doesn't matter.”

  
  


Milo shook his head. “You really are something else, you know that? I'm not buying it. Somewhere in there is the kid that just wants to see his dad again and go to some boring museum. That's what'll make you give a damn at the end of the day. Nobody can be that indifferent towards everything without lying to themselves.”

  
  


Edgar looked away at the mention of his father. “Then you should know that I'm speaking from experience. Don't let it make you miserable.”

 

“I'll consider it, but I make no promises.” Milo shook his head as he rose from his chair, frustrated that the only other Gold Saint he had come to know was apparently emotionally void.

  
  


Edgar held his tongue as the two began to clean up. He threw away the papers and folded up the chair covers. Starting to scrub the purple splatters, he mulled over what the both of them had divulged.

  
  


Despite the heated argument towards the end, they had listened to each others' stories, something he wouldn't have considered doing with anyone else. That had to mean something beyond what Milo considered the both of them to be.

  
  


“Crepes.” he said as he threw away the papers.

  
  


Milo was snapped out of his general fuming, “Huh?”

  
  


“They're my favorite. Not much on them either, just butter and sugar.”

  
  


Acknowledging Edgar's attempt to bridge the gap between them, Milo couldn't help but crack a smile and shake his head. “Fried squash flowers are mine. My mom used to fill them with rice.”

  
  


Edgar smiled back. “They sound wonderful.”

  
  


“I figured you'd like gold flakes on your crepes,” Milo teased as he helped clean the cups and brushes in the sink.

  
  


Edgar broke out a chuckle. “They're not that great, trust me.”

  
  


Tensions eased and new bond formed, the two of them laughed as they headed for the kitchen.

1In 1968, Parisian students and workers began a number of demonstrations, protests and strikes which raised a fear of revolution or civil war. The movement came to a head in May, and at one point the president at the time, Charles de Gaulle, fled the country for his safety. The movement faded in June and July, but to this day it is considered a historic moral turning point in French history - <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/May_1968_events_in_France> [Special thanks to roguedwarf on tumblr.com for confirming the nomenclature for this event.](http://sanctuarycolumn.tumblr.com/post/148707043179/hello-browsing-your-blog-a-bit-i-just-stumbled)

2Greece was occupied by the Axis powers during WW2 - <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Axis_occupation_of_Greece>

3A voluntary battalion from France partook in the Korean War - <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/French_Battalion_(Korean_War>)

4In French, saying you have chicken skin is equivalent to having goosebumps

 


	3. Part 3

“This sandwich isn't half bad.”

  
  


“ _Please_ swallow before you speak,” Edgar begged exasperatedly, “if you loved your parents as much as you claim, then you should have paid attention when they taught you manners.”

  
  


“Bet you tell all your dates that, huh _Aquarius_?” Milo grinned and winked, making Camus flustered and bright red. He gulped down the bite he was working on. “ _Love_ , by the way, they're still around.”

  
  


“You keep in touch, then?” Edgar asked as he bit into his own, made with what leftovers he could find in the fridge.

  
  


“Yup, just spoke with them the other day.”

  
  


Edgar's eyes widened. “You're allowed to call them? I'm surprised Arles would let you.”

  
  


“Never said he did,” Milo explained with a satisfied smirk.

  
  


Edgar chuckled as he stood to refill Milo's cup of tea from an electric samovar1 on the counter. “How did they take to your Sainthood?”

  
  


“They don't completely know or understand the details,” the Scorpio Saint answered, swallowing his next bite as he felt the stab of Edgar's eyes on his back before he could see them. “I just told them I'm in a top secret military program.”

  
  


“And they bought that?”

  
  


“Surprisingly, yes. Mom always wants to see me, but I tell her she can't because we're traveling all the time. I haven't seen them in years, but most of the time hearing them is enough. My mom finally retired, and my sisters are all grown. Alexandra's a doctor, she's the oldest. And little Chloe's a gymnast now. Dad's still getting around alright with his cane thanks to Alex's work on him.”

  
  


“Well, it's good to hear they're thriving.” Edgar mused.

  
  


Once again a gloating air surrounded his friend. “Well, the Pagoulatos family knows how to succeed.” he grinned, slightly puffing out his chest.

  
  


“That has got to be the most Greek surname I have ever heard,” the Aquarius Saint teased with a grin of his own.

  
  


Milo laughed and waved it off. “I really missed them all during training, honestly. Which is pretty ironic, given how close by I was the whole time.”

  
  


“You trained on Milo Island, correct?” Edgar asked, now pouring more tea for himself.

  
  


“Yeah, it's not too far off from Athens. They say that the best of the best train there, you know.”

  
  


Edgar raised a brow to the claim, now actively trying to knock Milo down a peg. “I've heard it's just a backup training ground for when there's too many people in Athens.”

  
  


“Come on, who are you going to believe – me or your own eyes?”

  
  


“For some reason I feel seeing is believing.” Edgar decided.

  
  


“But feeling is the truth! Use the whole saying, dammit!”

  
  


Edgar looked shocked for a moment before Milo continued, “Bah, fine, suit yourself. There were a lot of us, though. Training for the coveted Orion Cloth.”

  
  


“The what?”

  
  


“The Orion Cloth! You know, the most famous silver Cloth there is?”

  
  


Edgar blinked as he sipped his tea. “It is?”

  
  


“Where in the world have you been?! Everyone talks about it! It's one of the most famous Cloths there is!”

  
  


“Everyone on the island said this?” Edgar queried, certain that once again Milo's warped perception of things.

  
  


Pausing, Milo then shook his head in denial. “How could it not be? I mean, when we learn about constellations they always talk about Orion's belt!”

  
  


Edgar shrugged. “All I know is, this is the first time I'm hearing it even exists.” he bit into his sandwich, amused as he witnessed one of Milo's harmless delusions shatter before his eyes.  
  
Crestfallen, the Scorpio Saint conceded. “Whatever. Didn't you train out here?”

  
  


Edgar nodded as he chewed on the last bits of his sandwich.

  
  


“Well then that figures. Out here in the middle of buttfuck Siberia I can't blame you for not being up to date on what happens back home.” Realizing the slang that rolled off his tongue, he quickly knew he had to apologize. “I mean, I know that's your thing and all, but you get what I mean.”

  
  


Edgar sucked his teeth and gave an amused smile at his friend's awkward stumbling. “Yes yes, I understand. Relax.” Edgar's preferences were met with general indifference by Milo, something he found himself relieved by, despite making no attempts to hide it.

  
  


Arguably, Camus might have found Milo himself attractive when they first met, but tragically the Scorpio Saint opened his mouth.

  
  


“How was it out here anyway?” Milo asked. “When you were training.”

  
  


Edgar leaned back in his chair, using a finger to scratch an itch on his scalp with his hair cap as he tried to recall the distant memories. “It was rather different from Paris, certainly. I hadn't realized how accustomed I had become to the maids and the luxuries that come with wealth.

  
  


“I was sent to a cabin a few villages over, and trained with a shaman. She herself wasn't a Saint, but she had learned her skill from Ice Saints that had come before her. She was the last one alive who could teach the arts that I had an affinity to. Ice warriors are apparently rare, so I feel rather fortunate to have two under my wing.”

  
  


“What was she like?” Milo inquired, now looking forward to hearing stories whenever he asked such open-ended questions.

  
  


“A taller woman, cold in her black eyes. She looked to be in her forties but I think she might have been far older than that. Oddly enough, I never learned her name. Not like it mattered, I just referred to her as Teacher. That's what she wanted, because that's what she was.

  
  


“The cabin we were in was far smaller than this one, and the cold was unbearable in the winter. She didn't care at all, though. One night she even slept outside in a blizzard. I watched in the morning as she dug herself out of the snow, almost refreshed from the experience. She told me many times that by becoming one with the ice, I could achieve the ultimate technique of Absolute Zero."

  
  


“Did you ever try it?”

  
  


“A few times, yes. The first time I almost fell to frostbite in my leg, the second time I caught pneumonia. The third time, at the height of my training, I was able to just get down to the sniffles. That's about as close as I ever got.”

  
  


“What made it more tolerable the third time?”

  
  


“Well, the concept behind ice techniques, unlike say lightning or fire which rely on speed, is that you are trying to slow atoms down. Ice is what happens when nature resists change, when things decelerate in the hopes of preservation. And so what I realized the third time is that I had to teach my body to do the same thing.

  
  


“I survived not by forcing my body to heat up, but by embracing that it was going to get cold. My own atoms slowed down, and I was able to preserve myself. Ideally, you can shut yourself down so much that it forces the air around you to absolute zero in turn.

  
  


“It's a rare concept in this day and age, the need to be slow, which is why it's hard to gain proficiency in it. That's what teacher told me anyway, and I could see what she meant. I had a difficult time teaching my boys patience, but it's proven invaluable to their training.”

  
  


Milo rested his arms on the table, leaning in. “She taught you all your fancy moves too, I guess?”

  
  


“All she could really do was demonstrate them to me. Not being a Saint herself, she relied on a walking stick with a gnarled, frozen top to use her powers. I didn't have the luxury of being able to mimic her way of summoning ice, so I had to come up with my own. I chose to give everything names, attach it to the feeling that they stirred in me as motivation.

  
  


“The first one I learned was how to make the dust that fills up the air frozen. How the light danced off the flecks of formerly dull particles was exquisite, akin to jewels. So, I chose that.

  
  


“When one of Teacher's eldest reindeer died, she mourned its loss like the death of a friend. She summoned a huge casing of ice to bury it, keep it preserved as she would remember it through the centuries.

  
  


“There was also a borealis that, with a tap of her staff, Teacher made descend upon us with a rumble that shook the trees and upended glaciers. A death by a dazzling aurora would have been devastating was the first thought to cross my mind.”

  
  


“Jeez, and you say you don't act like your mom.” Milo sassed as he finished his own sandwich. “You sound an awful lot like how she probably did.”

  
  


Edgar drew in a breath, aghast at the statement. “I am in no way like Genevieve! What makes you state such a bold claim?”

  
  


Helping to take Camus' plate along with his own to the sink, Milo shrugged. “Your mom was a fancy designer, right?”

  
  


“Yes, what of it?” Edgar asked, washing the plates in the sink.

  
  


“The way you talk about glorified cold air sounds a lot like how those frou-frou people talk. Just an observation,” he noted, sitting down and mindlessly flipping through a magazine on the coffee table. “Ah, see? Like this ad here. You sound exactly like this!”

  
  


Edgar stepped over to the living area and took the magazine.

  
  


_Orchid Shoe Collection – May you tread with blossoms at your feet_

  
  


Edgar scoffed. “Oh, I do not sound like that,” he objected, scanning the ad below its image of a woman stepping in ornate shoes as a trail of flowers was behind her. He flinched as he saw the company being advertised.

  
  


- _The latest from G.G. Paris_

  
  


He snapped the magazine closed and tossed it across the room, sitting across from Milo in a wooden cushioned chair. “So what of your training, then?” Edgar asked, making a mental note to burn the issue later and end his subscription.

  
  


“Like I said, there were several of us competing for the Orion Cloth. Despite what you may believe it’s one of the most famous silver Cloths around, and we all busted our asses trying to vie for a spot in the grand tournament for it, the Hunter’s Trial.”

  
  


“What were-”

  
  


“My colleagues like? My master?” Milo finished for him. “Figured you’d ask.”

  
  


“Well, you’re not wrong,” Edgar conceded with a smirk. “Well then, go on, the suspense is just murderous.”

  
  


Overlooking his companion's sarcasm, Milo began, “Master Brutus was this huge, hulking guy. Must have been about two and a half meters tall and three hundred pounds of pure muscle. The guy could snap you in two if he tried to scratch an itch on your back.”

  
  


“Would you know this from personal experience?” Edgar jested, now being the one to slouch on the table.

  
  


Milo crinkled his nose. “What? No, I’m just saying he looked that big.”

  
  


“Your hyperboles are something else,” Edgar laughed, “but go on.”

  
  


“Anyway, so he was a big guy and he trained all of us to be buff. That’s all he really knew about, honestly. Wrestling and fighting. Which was honestly pointless for me, since I could just point and bring anyone down in seconds.”

  
  


“So what did he have you do?”

  
  


“Finger stands. For hours,” he admitted with a dramatic sigh.

  
  


Edgar clicked his teeth and shook his head. “Bet that did next to nothing, didn’t it?”

  
  


“You guessed about right. I wound up just practicing on the abandoned pillars around, trying to make holes in them.”

  
  


“See, that doesn't make sense to me, either. Sometimes those training regimes were ridiculous. One time Teacher made me fight three bears at once to teach me a freezing technique.”

  
  


“Jesus! Hope you don't make your kids go through that.”

  
  


“No no, I gave them something far more reasonable.”

  
  


“That being?”

  
  


“Just an extremely angry one.”

  
  


“Yeah, that seems...much more logical.” Milo conceded, nonplussed.

  
  


“So aside from Brutus, did you get to know anyone else?”

  
  


“Well, not to brag, but I was one of the more popular trainees. Everyone wanted me at their hangout spots, but I guess there were a few people that stick out to me, mainly Darla Lou.”

  
  


“Darla Lou? Quite the name. Has to be American.” Edgar concluded.

  
  


“About as American as it gets. She had the accent and everything. She always talked about how she was ‘just a hillbilly’, whatever those are, until her Cosmo woke up the day she had to help one of her cows give birth. She pulled it out all on her own.”

  
  


A disgusted sound emerged from Edgar’s throat. “Enchanting. Rather bold of her, if I must confess.”

  
  


“Yeah, but she was pretty strong. Had my kind of sense of humor too. We had a lot of fun coming up with pranks for the other trainees,” he grinned, recounting the memory. “Probably the best one was when we covered some of the soap bars with clear nail polish. Nobody could get them to lather up and we were crying from laughing so hard.”

  
  


“Good lord,” Edgar grieved, “the fact that another person like you exists alarms me. That you know each other is probably even worse.”

  
  


“Haven’t heard from her in a while, though. You know how it is with Silver Saints, they go all over the place.”

  
  


“So she's a Silver Saint now?”

  
  


“Yeah, she’s Orion in case you haven't realized it yet.” Milo answered, a little surprised that Edgar couldn’t keep up.

  
  


“But then, how did you get your Cloth? Now that I think about it, did you even know that it existed?”

  
  


Milo looked around the empty cabin. Leaning close to Camus across the way. “Your kids aren’t coming back for a while, right?”

  
  


“No, and I'm not sure why you’re keeping your voice so low. Nobody can hear you.”

  
  


“Because we took an oath not to talk about it. We got our Cloths during the same trial.”

  
  


Edgar furrowed his brow. “If you're not supposed to talk about it, why are you telling me?”

  
  


“Well, you took everything else I just unloaded on you pretty well. I figured you can keep this quiet too. I’d rather get it off my chest anyway, and it’s nice to have someone who’s willing to shut up and listen.” He shrugged a shoulder, “For the most part, anyway.”

  
  


The Aquarius Saint couldn’t help but smile at the sentiment. “Well then, I consider it an honor. Go on.”

  
  


Milo leaned back and continued. “I'd say it was about two, three years in? They gathered us around to get ready for the Hunter's Trial. Of course, we had a few objections to the way they went about it.”

  
  


“How so?”

  
  


“Well, the way it's supposed to go is just fights to the death in a big ring of fire. Of course, that made no sense to us, and we told Brutus. And by we, I really do mean _all_ of us thought it was nuts.

  
  


He kept saying it was the way it's always been done so why change it, but we kept telling him that wasn't a valid excuse. It's unfair!” By this point, his voice started to raise at the outrage he felt.

  
  


“Besides, it'd just make a huge mess at the end of the day. You can still see the bloodstains on the floor of the stadium that couldn't be cleaned off from previous trials. And go figure with how much of a mess it could be. Actual hunters don't even face sixteen animals at once! How the hell is it accurate or even related to being a hunter?!”

  
  


Milo took a deep breath to collect himself after his rant so he could keep going, the redness from his face faded. Edgar held back a laugh.

  
  


“Point is, we won out, and instead got matched up into pairs. We drew lots on who would fight who. We got to pick weapons to fight with, of course all I really needed was Scarlet Needle.

  
  


“We all slept as far apart as we could from each other the night before. We claimed it was so we couldn't see what weapon we had chosen, but I'm pretty sure nobody wanted to see their opponents before their lives were in each others' hands.

  
  


“The trial itself brought a crowd from the mainland, including the Pope,” Milo stared into the distance, trying to replay the memory in his head.

  
  


“It was...” Edgar couldn't bring himself able to finish, as his voice trailed. The former leader of the Saints, benevolent and just, had an untimely death soon after Camus had joined the ranks of the Gold Saints.

  
  


Milo sighed and nodded, “It was Shion. It's such a shame that we barely got to know him. From the way everyone talks, he seemed like a great guy. Hell, he was meters high on a throne and I felt such a good energy radiating off of him.”

  
  


Edgar nodded in agreement. “I remember feeling the same way at my trial. But you were there for that I believe.”

  
  


Milo shrugged. “Still had no idea what was going on in it. I just knew you still owed me 1000 Drachmae2, and I was gonna stick around until you paid up.”

  
  


Edgar rolled his eyes. “Yes, that I remember rather fondly,” he said sarcastically, “But we digress. Tell me about the trial.”

  
  


Milo leaned back as his face grew all the more serious, trying his best to recount the painful memory.  
“We were all paired off and Shion gave a speech about the Cloth and what it represented. He said some other nonsense about how we should try to emulate its properties of 'might', 'cunning' or what have you in order to win it. You ever notice how much everyone in Greece has a flair for the dramatic?”

  
  


Edgar looked pointedly at his Greek friend for a moment, as to emphasize Milo's point. But the expression was lost on the overtly dramatic Saint.

  
  


“Once he was done, he waved his hand over the stage and huge stone walls just popped out of the ground to block us all off from each other. The only person I could see was the one in front of me- Darla Lou.

  
  


She picked a club about twice her size, probably using her cosmo to hold it. Honestly though, she was pretty buff. Maybe she didn't need it, but either way it was in her hands and damn terrifying.

  
  


“I remember feeling sweaty all of a sudden, and then I turned to see the fire. It surrounded the outer ring of the arena, so those of us with our backs to it had to watch out. On Shion's call, we started.

  
  


“I did my best just to try and throw some punches at her at first. I tried to use a move I had with my Needle to restrain her. It worked for a while, until the screams of all my friends began to distract me. We decided that as a victor was determined for the different matches, their walls would fall so they could battle other victors nearby.

  
  


“I heard wall after wall crumble, and caught old friends either limping or being dragged away out the corner of my eye. It's weird, you'd think we'd have to be used to death, but Brutus never taught us about how to stomach the sound of cracking bones or the smell of burning flesh.

  
  


“We had to take the fight away from each other as other victors ganged up on us, already losing a bit of their minds from what they had gone through. Few were a match for my Needle, and nobody can survive a blow to the head from Darla's club, much less in one piece.” He shifted and crinkled his nose as the memory of brain matter scattered at his feet nearly made him ill.

  
  


“Eventually we took everyone out. Darla had no qualms killing anyone that threatened her, but a few stings from me was enough to render them near paralyzed. They were taken away by officiators.

  
  


“Finally there was this huge pile of rubble around us, and it was her against me. We kept the furthest away from each other the night before. Neither of us wanted to get to that point, but I think we knew it was inevitable.

  
  


“She tried to get a few hits on me with that monster of a club, but I avoided them. I think she missed on purpose a few times, but at the time I blessed my good luck and didn't see the gesture behind it.

  
  


“Eventually she had me pinned, just a meter away from the fire. I was stuck. I had to attack with what I had or die. I fired a few shots at her. It wasn't until the third that she started to feel it. Two more and she was on the ground. And that's when the game changed.”

  
  


“How so?” Edgar asked, a hint of enthusiasm in his voice. He was now enthralled in the retelling of the trial, never liking such horrid descriptions of battles normally. However, he wanted to know how his friend succeeded more than anything.

  
  


“I decided I couldn't kill her. I kept thinking of those countless hours with Damien's corpse. I could see it every time I closed my damn eyes. I couldn't do that to her, nor anyone else for that matter. I had decided.

  
  


“I pointed the Needle at myself and fired. It turned into a game of keeping sane while I counted to fifteen. I could see why they always screamed.

  
  


“The first one felt like my blood was on fire. By the third I felt like snakes made of blades were carving into my skin. On the fifth I couldn't scream since my jaw locked. Got to seven and I could barely move, my muscles got so tensed up, they felt like they were searing. I think I almost tore something as I forced my arm up to keep going. By ten my sight went, hearing went at twelve."

  
  


Edgar clutched his stomach as Milo continued.

  
  


“I kept counting, though. I was ready to end the insanity then and there no matter what. To be honest, it kind of felt like relief, like I was paying myself back for the horrible things I had done with my fucking fingernail.

  
  


“I was fourteen in when I was choking on my own vomit. I raised my hand for one more, but I felt something jerk my hand back and stop me. I got dragged away and passed out before I could protest it.”

  
  


Edgar's expression was somewhere between horror and relief. Never having heard deathly pain explained so vividly, let alone self inflicted. He now knew why Milo shied away from causing death by his own means.

  
  


“When I woke up, I was in an infirmary. Felt like total shit, but Darla was sitting at the bedside in the Orion Cloth. Made sense, seeing as I technically forfeited. At the foot of my bed was the Pope, he had a Gold box with him. Turns out the Hunter's Trial can also be a secret test for the Scorpio Cloth.”

  
  


“How, though? It seems rather strange.”

  
  


“Shion said something about Scorpio being beside Orion in the sky, and their myths are tied together. I forget exactly how, I think Orion killed it when it tried to kill him. Since I chose my own death over Darla's, even though it would have been a breeze, I showed responsibility for the power I had.

  
  


“Shion felt the Cloth would be in good hands. I said some kind of oath about protecting the Scorpio temple, blah blah, and two months later you show up.”

  
  


Edgar chuckled. “I do recall that quite well. Teacher said my potential far exceeded the Cygnus Cloth, and I was sent to Greece to compete for the Aquarius Cloth. It really wasn't planned at all on my part. Odd how we managed to sneak out to Rodorio on the same night, isn't it?”

  
  


“The need for dye struck us both at the same time, I guess. They still only sell it at that one drugstore, by the way.”

  
  


“Really? Well, that's unfortunate for you. I remember taking the bus there was a hassle.”

  
  


“It still is, but it really is a good brand so I'd say it's worth it. By the way, thanks for actually paying me back soon after. I remember the Chimeras being terrible about that kind of thing.”

  
  


“I'm just grateful you were willing to help a near stranger in a pinch.”

  
  


Milo leaned back in his chair as he gave his friend a reassuring smile. “I guess I understood how big a deal the process can be.”

  
  


Edgar couldn't have been more grateful for it. Having brought the hand mirror from the restroom to the coffee table, he could already see that his hair was absorbing the dye through his cap. “So then, what were you confused about regarding the trial?”

  
  


“Well first off, why was the place encased in glass and all dark looking?”

  
  


Still checking the dye's progress in the mirror, Edgar responded to his questions. “Design choice I suppose. Next?”

  
“So why was Shion sitting on a throne that looked like Zeus'?”

  
  


“Weren't you listening to Pope Shion as he explained all that?”

  
  


Milo's eyes shifted as the question was posed to him. “I might have been...preoccupied.”

  
  


Edgar sighed. “There was a girl wasn't there?”

  
  


“Look, as a Gold Saint my options expanded! I had to capitalize on it!” the Scorpio Saint argued, realizing he'd get no empathy from his colleague.

  
  


“Ask Arles about Ganymede3, then. He was the cup-bearer for the gods, kidnapped by Zeus for his beauty. That's why it's called the Trial of the Favored.”

  
  


Milo grimaced at the description. “That was a little ambitious, wasn't it?”

  
  


“You're Greek, and you aren't aware of how big a scoundrel Zeus was?”

  
  


“Well it's not like I paid a lot of attention in Mythology class, sue me. Plus, shouldn't you watch your mouth? What if he hears you?”

  
  


Edgar waved off the concern. “We serve his daughter, a far wiser and less foolishly driven deity. I don't mind what he thinks.”

  
  


Milo shrugged in surrender. “Your funeral. So what was the deal with the goblet he had?”

  
  


“That itself was the trial. I had to serve him a drink from one of three Golden Urns. Two of them had poison, while the third was safe to drink.”

  
  


Milo's eyes widened. “Wait, you mean to tell me you could have killed the Pope?!”

  
  


“The role of cup-bearer was one that was highly regarded, and required trust. I would have to drink the water first before pouring it to ensure that it was safe. So actually, I would have killed myself first before the Pope could have been endangered.

  
  


“Which water was safe wasn't known to him either, so that alone added even more risk. Nobody knew what was the safe one-the urns themselves chose whether or not they would be filled with poison.”

  
  


“I guess that's fair.” Milo figured, remembering as several other candidates retched or fell over with fever prior to the victor's entrance. “Were you scared?”

  
  


Edgar placed the mirror on the table and looked down to describe the trial from his perspective. “Well, the obstacle course there was a bit nerve-wracking initially. I had never seen so many giant swinging blades before, and the climb up the steps to the urns was a challenge in and of itself, what with the boulders rolling down that I had to avoid. Seeing the sliced and squashed corpses of my rivals was intimidating, and those that were surpassing the initial obstacles weren't going to make my life any easier.”

  
  


“Oh, man! I remember that huge guy that threw a chunk of one of the boulders at you!” Milo jumped out of his chair as he recalled the thrilling race to the golden urns atop a towering flight of stairs.

  
  


“I'm still surprised that I managed to escape that alive, but my Aurora Execution made quick work of him. It was rather satisfying to see him shatter as he fell down the stairs-his mouth ran far too much and too crudely to remain among the living, should he assail another poor victim's ears with his slurs.

  
  


“The problem that followed was that I didn't calculate how the attack might have affected the stairs. They became slippery, and I nearly fell back completely myself.”

  
  


“Yeah, I think I remember that. You slipped back a few steps. Didn't you break your nose or something? I remember seeing red on the steps.”

  
  


“I think you're right...Yes! I did. I had to deal with ice and blood as I kept going.

  
  


“In Siberia,” Edgar recounted, “I would practice encasing my feet in ice over the frozen lakes and tall waves to avoid slipping. It was a trick Teacher taught me, and I've passed it on to the boys as well. It should come in handy for them one day, as it did for me during that phase of the trial.

  
  


“Of course, I was still frightened. Who wouldn't be? I was nearly there, neck in neck with a few of my opponents who had managed to avoid the icy steps or had managed to crawl up. I remember something coming over me in that moment.

  
  


“I realized it was the emotion that I had seen behind my father's eyes that night when our home was broken into...That they were going to take something away from me, and that I wouldn't allow it.”

  
  


“Wait, was that when things got all cloudy?”

  
  


“Yes. I had used Diamond Dust and blocked their vision, along with everyone else's unfortunately. My apologies for that. Though I'm sure you had more interesting distractions, to pass the time.”

  
  


“What, the chick? Oh forget it, by that point I was on the edge of my seat. I was freaking out and hoping you were alright in there.”

  
  


A tilt of Edgar's head, small but sharp, showed his surprise. “Really?”

  
  


“Well, sure. You know how awful that bus ride was. You think I wanted to do it again _alone_?”

  
  


Edgar smiled. “Fortunately I was alright. What I didn't expect was the lightning that appeared as we got closer to the urns. Dodging them was risky business, and I knew my final competitor perished as one of them hit him. I was singed,” he said as he rolled up his sleeve and showed a long, branching, feathery scar4 that crawled across his shoulder, “which slowed me down quite a bit. By that point though, I was focused. After all, I had a promise to keep and a debt to pay.

  
  


“Finally, I had made it to the top. Between all three urns I was unsure of what to do, so I decided to try something that was a bit unusual. I had always noticed that in the cleaner lakes, the ice froze over clearer than in the ones closer to the cities. It was because of impurities in the water. I decided to see if I could use that to test for the poison urns.”

  
  


“Aaah, that's pretty smart!” Milo praised, grinning from ear to ear as he was finally caught up over a decade later on how Camus had succeeded in the trial.

  
  


“There were cups for each urn waiting for us, I took them, collected some water and froze it. The first one I tried, on the right, froze into a solid black. No good. I tried the next one, and it froze into black again. That meant then that the third was the safe one, and excitedly I dipped the cup in and checked.

  
  


“Never had I seen ice so crystal clear. I dipped once more and drank, disappearing with the urn in a flash of light.”

  
  


“Oh, that's when you showed up in front of the Pope, right?”

  
  


“Yes. I poured him a glass and he drank. As we know, he didn't die that day. I was claimed the victor and took the same oath as you. With my first month of pay, I was able to give back what I had borrowed from you.”

  
  


Milo laughed. “Can't believe it took us this long to finally talk about all this to be honest. What the hell were we doing all these years in between?”

  
  


Edgar laughed as well as he checked the clock. “Waiting for our dyes to set, I suppose.”

1A samovar is a container for heating water, used to serve tea. Russian homes typically have one to serve tea to guests.  
<https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Samovar>

2Drachmae was the currency of Greece prior to the adoption of the Euro - <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Greek_drachma>

3Ganymede was a beautiful young man, who captivated Zeus and was kidnapped by him with an eagle (considered to be the Aquila constellation). He was tasked with being the cupbearer to the Gods, and was placed in the stars in tribute. It is one of the myths associated with the Aquarius constellation.

4Lightning strikes have been known to cause feathery-like scars known as Lichtenberg Marks - <https://weather.com/health/news/catching-lightning-body-what-happens-when-lightning-strikes-20140114>

 


	4. Part 4

The two Saints kneeled over the tub as they rinsed the dye out of their hair.

  
  


“I really do miss this brand,” Edgar spoke over the water rushing from his movable shower head, wringing his hair with his free hand as a stream of blue leaked from it and trailed to the drain. He hadn't been able to dye in an excruciating amount of time, given the lack of places to buy it where he lived.

  
  


Taking the shower head from Camus, Milo nodded in agreement. “I dunno how you could handle it, to be honest. I barely recognize you when it's red like that anymore,” Milo joked as he wrung the purple dye from his hair.

  
  


“Quite frankly, I had to hesitate a moment when I saw you blonde again. I thought I had picked up the wrong person from the station and somewhere nearby you were running around with your purple hair and giving the locals grief,” he joked.

  
  


“Who says I still won't?” the Scorpio Saint teased with a grin. “I'm here for a few days at least, aren't you going to show me around?”

  
  


“And get my boys banned from this place? Not on your life.”

  
  


“Suit yourself, we still need to go drinking at some point.”

  
  


“I only drink-”

  
  


“Wine, I know. You can't stand being anywhere near that _horse piss_.” Milo mocked his friend's slight French accent as he described his opinion of beer.

  
  


“I do not sound like that!” Edgar protested, holding back a laugh. Given all that they had shared with each other that day, the regular air of formality he had with essentially everyone was starting to diminish.

  
  


“No, you're right. _You zound more like zees, hon hon hon!_ ” Milo only upped the ante on his caricature as Edgar surrendered with a giggle, leaning over the tub.

  
  


“And yourself? _What the hell is this shit?! Hey, check out that girl over there!”_ he mimicked Milo.“I swear, I don't think you ever grew out of fifteen.”

  
  


Milo cackled at his friend's impersonation, “Yeah, you're probably not wrong.” Using an old purple-stained towel he brought from his suitcase, he dried his hair and let out a sigh. “I gotta be honest. I have no idea why the hell you put up with me. I'm kind of an annoying prick. Always was, it drives people crazy.”

  
  


“No no, you're just a loudmouth. In truth, you are a good man.” Edgar explained as he used his own blue-stained towel to dry his hair. “Besides, I'm insufferably pretentious. It balances out.”

  
  


“Gotta admit, it's nice to have someone that'll listen to all our fucked up stories and not judge,” the Scorpio Saint admitted as he brought out his hair dryer.

  
  


Edgar agreed, surprised it took as long as it did for them to realize the true value of each others' company. “If we are being candid, I suppose the one thing I do miss about the Sanctuary is our dye sessions. More so now than ever.”

  
  


“Yeah, well, I guess that's why we were both so hell bent on making this meeting happen. Things really aren't the same around there. When you get back I'll at least have someone to vent to and keep my sanity. Plus way better coverage in the back of my head,” he complimented, checking the job well done by Camus there using the bathroom and hand mirrors.

  
  


Edgar paused his drying at the idea of returning. “I have a few more years at least with the boys,” he explained as he slowly continued, “but I don't think I can return to the Sanctuary once I'm done.”

  
  


Milo froze. “What?! Why?”

  
  


Lifting his head, Edgar turned to his friend. “It's just not safe.”

  
  


“The hell do you mean it's not safe? We're on the top of a huge mountain! Camus, you gotta come back! Arles is expecting you back once you're done. You don't want to know what happens when you don't listen to him. I've seen it firsthand!”

  
  


“That's exactly why I can't go back. For all the things you find strange in the world around us, you seem to have very easily accepted this replacement Pope.”

  
  


Milo sat once more at the edge of the bathtub as Camus spoke. “Well, it's not like I had much of a choice in the matter.”

  
  


“Don't you find it strange that we never heard of Shion having a brother until he passed? Wouldn't we have known beforehand?”

“I dunno, maybe he didn't want to be in the spotlight. What's your point?” The conversation was making him uncomfortable.

  
  


Edgar looked to him, the steel in his eyes returning. “My point is, things don't add up. Everyone in the Sanctuary so easily accepts whatever ruling their superiors give them, including the Gold Saints. There hasn't been a great war in over two centuries, which may be the reason.”

  
  


“Now wait a minute! No war is a good thing, you can't deny that!” Milo argued, rising up from his seat.

  
  


“I'm not saying it isn't good,” Edgar replied calmly. “but peace lulls people to sleep. It leads them to accept the powers-that-be since, after all, they are keeping them safe. Then, we have a problem: those who are asleep can't say no.

  
  


“When something foul is afoot, they deny it or can't even be bothered to acknowledge it. I didn't trust Arles from the beginning, and I think there's more to Shion's death than we were led to believe. However, I knew such words wouldn't bode well in the Sanctuary, so I took the earliest chance I could to leave.

  
  


“It was the only way I could safely oppose the change. Perhaps Mu was thinking the same thing.”

  
  


“Why not just fight back?!” Milo interjected.

  
  


“Me and what army? He may be crazy as you claim, but he is powerful. I doubted anyone would have believed me, including you. I would have had no backup. The best I can do is leave and train a new generation. One that might be able to change things and ask the right questions.”

  
  


Camus might have been more right than Milo was willing to admit. Sitting back down, he cradled his head in his hands. “Why the hell didn't you tell me this sooner?”

  
  


“As much as I would have liked to, I didn't realize the value of our friendship. I think we both know it after today, so I'm telling you this now for your own good, Milo. Your loyalty and position leave you at the same risk of being tricked, even more so than I realized based on what you told me.

  
  


“When you get back, be careful. Listen. Pay attention to the right details. Arles may be Shion's brother, but why does he never let us see Athena?”

  
  


The Scorpio Saint was unable to respond. He hoped the noise of the blow-dryer would drown out his now buzzing thoughts.

  
  


-FIN


End file.
